


til i change my luck

by excaliburss, marcel



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But also, Established Relationship, M/M, No Beast AU, Pre-Relationship, Soulmates, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-20 06:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30000891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/excaliburss/pseuds/excaliburss, https://archiveofourown.org/users/marcel/pseuds/marcel
Summary: "I knew back then that the spell worked for you," Quentin goes on, eagerness seeping back into his tone, "but neither of us had any idea— I mean, nobody remembers where it takes them, but it's still— it's nice to know." He's nearly grinning now, trying and failing to keep his excitement contained. "That it took youhere, I mean. To me." His gaze flits over Eliot's face with something like awe, eyes wide and bright. "That we're soulmates."or: Eliot takes an unexpected trip.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 40
Kudos: 120
Collections: Parts of One Whole - The Magicians Soulmate Collection





	til i change my luck

**Author's Note:**

> we back baby. whats a little time travel between friends
> 
> nicole's a/n: wow we sure did write the tropiest most indulgent fic ever huh. thanks to marcel for taking my frantic texts abt this daydream I had about queliot and turning it into a beautiful 31k fic of my literal dreams. quentin and eliot deserve this and so do we.
> 
> marcel's a/n: i know everything we write is incredibly self-indulgent but this is, like, honestly a whole new level and it was super fun lmao. it's been keeping me sane during the past 6 weeks right before i move across the country (again) and it turned out, uh, a bit longer than anticipated BUT i feel like i "learned things" about the "writing process" during this and i'm excited to share it finally!! god bless s1 canon divergence friends to lovers, amen  
> thank u 2 julia for proofreading, and 2 nicole for daydreaming this idea and executive producing like every line!!! this time it's REALLY all for u.

Sometimes the monotony of the very-edge-of-fall crispness that Brakebills campus is suspended in is a little much for Eliot's tastes, but it's not so bad in early February. In fact, it's hard not to feel appreciative when it lets him lounge under a tree on the quad while knowing full well that it's something like 20 degrees beyond the school grounds. There's not much better than basking in the shade with Margo, his head in her lap, while Quentin curls himself around a book next to them.

The sun catches just the edge of the pages, and the hair on Quentin's forearms - the sight of which is a novelty that Eliot hasn't quite gotten over. It's still not exactly warm out, but since the spring term started, Quentin has gotten in the habit of ditching his hoodie if he's outside for long enough. The first time, in response to their staring, he'd mumbled something about Brakebills South, and that was more than enough explanation for Eliot.

His own time at the South Pole is just another entry on the long list of things he does not think about, as a general rule, but Eliot does remember taking any and every excuse to be out in the sun afterwards, and refusing to even portal into the city until all the snow had melted. He assumes, from Quentin's newfound appreciation for showing skin, that his experience was about the same - with the added bonus of whatever happened there between him and Alice. Or whatever _almost_ happened, as he's learned through Margo's valiant attempts to coax the details out of the two of them. Eliot has very politely not added his own voice to the wheedling, but he also hasn't missed that Quentin still seems more concerned about the weather than anything.

And, wishing Mayakovsky into a deep and extremely well-deserved grave aside, if there's one upside to the whole thing, it's that Eliot gets to see Quentin without all his layers for once. It's a compelling prospect. Nearly enough to distract him from Margo's recap of some Treehouse drama they missed a few days ago - not a good outlook for second term, if all there is to gossip about is _Naturalists_ , but Eliot is more focused on the way Quentin lifts his hand to tuck his hair behind his ear, apparently oblivious to how it falls back in his face almost immediately, the sun pushing through and turning his bangs to honey— 

"Hey, are you listening?" He drags his gaze away when Margo taps his cheek, looking down at him with her eyebrows raised. "We're gonna be late for Sunderland's class."

Sighing, Eliot presses the back of his hand across his eyes for a moment. "Oh, Bambi, you've ruined the mood." He glances over at Quentin again as he lets his arm fall back into the grass and smirks at the startled expression he's surfaced from his book with, blinking in the sunlight like he'd forgotten where he was. "Didn't you see the heart-eyes Q was giving _The Hobbit_ just now?" 

Quentin frowns at him and holds up the cover. "It's _The Silmarillion_ , actually."

"See? It was for the greater good," Margo says, rolling her eyes before she prods Eliot again. "Now come on, get off me. Time to face the music."

Eliot's huff is probably a little more dramatic than the situation calls for, but he does heave himself upright so she can smooth out her skirt. As he unfolds his crossed legs and brushes grass off his cardigan, he sneaks another glance at Quentin. The book is closed now, though he's still fidgeting with the page corners while he watches the two of them gather themselves up. Eliot can tell he's a little disappointed that they're being called back to reality instead of just lounging outside with him for the rest of the afternoon - mostly because he feels the same way - but there's also a growing curiosity in Quentin's expression that's quickly outweighing his gloom. 

"What class are you headed to?" he asks, sounding so genuinely interested that Eliot wishes he had a better answer to give him.

"Metaphysical Relations," he sighs, frowning when Quentin doesn't look any less intrigued. "Before you get excited, I can assure you it's _extremely_ dull."

"It's supposed to be about better understanding your role in the world as a Magician, magic as a network, stuff like that," Margo explains, sifting through her purse. "But everyone recommending it failed to mention that it's also boring as shit."

Quentin still doesn't seem bothered by the prospect - in fact, he looks a little offended. "How could it be boring?" he asks, almost incredulous. "I mean, last semester, Magical History was kind of dense sometimes, but it was still, like, _magic_."

Eliot can't help smiling at his impassioned pout. Somehow, the shine still hasn't quite worn off for Quentin, despite both campuses' best efforts. "Well, nothing takes the magic out of magic like a droning preachment about the logic of the Wellspring," he says dryly, schooling his expression back into distaste.

Quentin makes a face too, though it's a little less dramatic. "Sounds like something Mayakovsky would teach."

"It's not _that_ bad," Margo assures him, glancing over for just a second before she goes back to tying her hair up. "There's decidedly less of a threat to our lives, for one thing."

"Just the regular Magic School Could Kill You amount, you mean," Quentin says with a wry look.

"Something has to make it at least mildly interesting," Eliot gripes, leaning back on his elbows in the grass. "I'm not sure which is worse, sitting through last week's lecture, or today's casting lab, which is almost guaranteed to be pointless."

Quentin's frown lifts just a little. "So... you're not going?" he asks, a hopeful lilt to his voice that has Eliot smirking back at him.

"Encouraging us to play hooky, Coldwater?" he teases, dropping his chin to give him a sly look through his lashes while Margo snorts a laugh. "How naughty."

Quentin's pout returns in full force, along with a faint flush across his cheeks. "You encourage me to skip class all the time," he points out with a huff. "Literally yesterday, you told me I should skip Alchemy II to hang out with you."

"That was different," Eliot sniffs. "I needed a taste tester." In truth, he had been looking specifically for Quentin's input on the cocktail he was workshopping, but that's supposed to be a surprise.

The idea of crafting some sort of signature drink for Q is something he's been playing with for a few weeks now - not that there's a problem with the way Quentin accepts basically any glass or flute Eliot offers him, but he likes to think he's getting a read on Quentin's actual preferences. So he wants some validation, sue him.

Alas, yesterday, Quentin was very stubbornly set on going to class with absolutely no regard for Eliot's plans. Maybe he should have expected that, since Alchemy is one the courses that Quentin shares with Julia. Eliot doesn't know her super well, just that she’s in Knowledge, and that she and Q have been best friends since the dawn of time or whatever, and that she takes magic even more seriously than Quentin does. And that she can be kind of a bitch when she wants to be, but that's more of a subjective opinion. Eliot might still have a _little_ bit of a bias against her since the fight she and Q had at the start of the year.

He remembers Quentin fuming as he paced his bedroom, telling him how Julia wanted him to move out of the Cottage, how she thought he and Margo were bad influences - "So she's allowed to make new friends, but I'm not?" he had ranted, scoffing bitterly. "It's such bullshit, I mean— for _once_ , I'm somewhere I want to be, and I'm actually doing okay, but it's— it's like she'd rather I be miserable."

Eliot was pretty sure that probably wasn't the case, and was, in fact, very aware he was only getting one side of the story— but Quentin's angry frown didn't quite hide the edges of hurt in his expression, and Eliot kind of decided then and there that he didn't like Julia much. And the feeling was apparently mutual.

But of course she and Quentin had made up after a couple weeks of silence between them, and it's been more or less smooth sailing since then. She even comes around the Cottage sometimes, and through their scant few interactions that haven't involved narrowed eyes or forced smiles, Eliot can mostly understand that she's just protective of her friend. He's glad, actually, that Quentin has someone like that in his corner, but— well. He's Quentin's friend, too.

And he imagines it would be a lot easier to talk him into ditching class if it was one he shared with, say, Penny. But that's beside the point.

Today Quentin actually has a free afternoon in his schedule, but in a cruel twist of irony, it's Eliot who has betrothed himself to the academically responsible path. Or to following Margo on her way down it, more like, but whatever, the semantics don't make it any less upsetting.

He'd much rather spend the rest of the day right here in the shade, or maybe head back to the Cottage for late lunch - he could throw something together with the other two closeby, julienne some carrots with no hands to make Quentin laugh... and after, he could even get started on that cocktail, let Q try a few things and get him to unwind a little. Maybe see that soft smile he sometimes gets around him and Margo when he thinks they're not looking, or the pink flush that followed the last time Eliot caught him with it—

But that's heading into dangerous territory for a Tuesday afternoon, so Eliot gives himself a mental shake and tries to refocus as he stands up. "Regardless, we really should get going," he says with a sigh, brushing off his slacks and then holding his hand out to Margo to help her up as well. "It's probably not in our best interests to get on Sunderland's bad side this early in the semester."

"That's never stopped you before," Quentin mumbles, still a little indignant. He somehow manages to hold the expression even while scrambling much less gracefully to his feet to join them - Eliot feels his lips quirking unbidden, but Margo is smiling too, just before she rolls her eyes.

"Just take the win, Coldwater," she says briskly, even as she waits for Quentin to gather up his book and his discarded hoodie before she turns to lead the way across the quad. "We're squares now. It's your influence."

Eliot watches Quentin's brows draw together the way they do when he's not sure if they're making fun of him - and they are, a little bit, but they're also still working on getting him to feel like he's in on the joke, so Eliot hangs back half a step to beckon him along. "If any of us are going to get expelled, it won't be for something as gauche as bad attendance," he assures him, holding his arm out until Quentin starts to follow. "The spell we're learning might be pointless, but the course credits are not."

Quentin doesn't look entirely convinced. "How pointless can it be if it had a whole lecture's worth of preface?" he asks, stumbling a little on the path as he struggles to slip his hoodie back on one-handed, the other still holding his book.

"You'd understand if you heard the lecture," Margo snorts, sharing another short eye-roll with Eliot. "Hopefully Sunderland won't want to go over all of it again before we even get to casting. A girl can only hear the whole _soulmate_ spiel so many times before it gets old."

In his periphery, Eliot sees Quentin's head whip up so fast he nearly trips. "Soulmates?" he repeats, hurrying to fall into step beside Eliot. "But I thought— they're rare, right? So what does that have to do with— with metaphysical whatever?"

He's clearly trying for nonchalant, even if his wide-eyed interest is actively derailing the attempt. Eliot is used to his barely-contained excitement about all things magic, and even finds it endearing more often than not, but right now he kind of wishes it was centered around literally anything but this. He also knows better than to try and hold anything back from Quentin's eager curiosity, however, so he sighs out as much disdain as he can before answering.

"It's more part of this specific unit about the Wellspring and how it works," he explains, trying his best to keep from grimacing. "Beyond just what happens when someone waves their fingers, I mean."

Quentin nods along, pushing his hair out of his eyes again. "So soulmates are like, one of those weird side effect things, right? Like luck, and, um— stuff like cancer."

He glances down as he says the last bit, and Eliot feels guilt sink into his stomach as he abruptly remembers the whole Cancer Puppy debacle from last fall. Apologizing might make it worse though, going by how little sympathy Quentin seemed to want back then, so he sidles a little closer to him on the path instead, bumping shoulders with him mostly by accident. "See? That's the first half hour of the lecture covered."

To his relief, Quentin's lips twitch into a tiny smile. He clears his throat a second later and looks back up at Eliot, apparently determined enough to power on through. "So what's the spell? Something that tells you who your soulmate is?"

"Not exactly," Margo cuts in, slowing down to walk on Eliot's other side, easily slipping her arm through his. "Not everyone has a soulmate, for one thing. It's rare, like you said, even for Magicians. It was uncommon enough when the world population was less a few billion, so you can imagine how it is now."

"And even if you do have one, the chances of finding them are _extremely_ low," Eliot adds dryly. "Like, astronomically so. The only guarantee the Wellspring supposedly hands out is that one's soulmate is, at some point, on the same plane of existence as you."

"So no dead guys," Margo clarifies, then leans over to give Quentin a playful look. "That means you're SOL for Tolkien, unfortunately."

Shooting her a halfhearted glare, Quentin readjusts so he's no longer hugging his book to his chest. "Okay, so, someone alive," he says, brow furrowed. "That's, uh. Fairly broad, I guess."

Eliot gives him a droll smile. "So you see the problem."

"It's about as likely that your perfect match is hanging out one state over as it is that they're halfway across the world on a different continent," Margo lays out, waving her free hand dismissively. "Or they might be days from flatlining when you're just hitting puberty, like a Jacob-Renesmee situation. And even if you get lucky on _all_ those counts," she adds, cutting off whatever question Quentin just barely opens his mouth to ask, "you still have to actually manage to meet them somehow. Which, again, not exactly _Where's Waldo_."

"But some people _do_ manage to meet their soulmate, don't they?" Quentin insists, because of course he does. Eliot really should've seen this coming as soon as Quentin perked up about it. "I mean, we wouldn't know it's a thing if no one had ever beat the odds."

"Well, in the year 400, or whatever, I imagine it was probably a little easier to narrow it down," Eliot points out with a scoff.

Quentin frowns at him for that, which is not what Eliot was aiming for, but Margo goes on before he can remedy it. "The point is, whichever cosmic power came up with this shit clearly didn't think ahead," she sighs, letting go of Eliot to cross her arms instead. "Nowadays, coming across your soulmate is more blind luck than anything, if you even have one."

"Okay, I get it," Quentin says flatly, his mouth twisting in a wry smile, but his brows are pinched when he looks away. "So is that what your class is about? Keeping your expectations low?"

"Hey, exponentially small odds aside, we're still Magicians," Eliot says, softening his jaded tone as he reaches out to tug Quentin back into step with him and Margo. The stiffened line of his shoulders seems to draw Eliot's hand automatically, and once he has Quentin more-or-less tucked under his arm and blinking up at him in surprise, he can't really do much but roll with it. 

"There was this guy, Zeitpunkt, who was just as offended as you are but some centuries earlier," he explains, smirking when Quentin starts to pout again. "He came up with this sort of... probability spell. Innerste Augury. The way it works is that if you have a soulmate, and an actual non-zero chance of meeting them, it shows you some point in your future where those paths cross."

Quentin lights up with interest again immediately. "Like the first time you meet?"

"Or anything after that," Margo chimes in. "Just some random moment where the two of you are in the same room, I guess. The spell gives you a few minutes to run around in your future self's body - so you can hang out with your soulmate, look up lottery numbers, whatever."

"Then it shoots you back to the present," Eliot says amiably, watching Quentin nod along, "and once the spell ends, it takes your memories of the incident with it."

It's probably not appropriate to be endeared by just how quickly the indignant frown returns to Quentin's face. "Wait, what? Why?"

"Well, it can't be too convenient, or people just might stop being miserable," Eliot scoffs. "Can't have that, obviously. The Wellspring would probably dry up in protest."

"I think it's safe to assume the guy probably meant his spell to be a _little_ less useless," Margo points out, raising a dubious eyebrow at him. "You're the one with the Horomancy elective. That shit's hard."

"But you don't even remember where the spell took you?" Quentin asks incredulously. "Or who your soulmate is? What's the point, then?"

Eliot gives him a wry look. "I've been asking myself that all week."

"Oh, calm down," Margo huffs, rolling her eyes as she crosses in front of them. She all but shoves Eliot's arm off of Quentin's shoulders and forces a space for herself between them, hooking her elbow around Quentin's. "It doesn't fully obliviate you," she tells him, equal parts scoffing and reassuring. "Sunderland said it's more like waking up after a dream. You lose the plot pretty fast, but you remember some things, like impressions, feelings." She pats his arm soothingly. "You might forget most of the details after casting, but you still know you went somewhere."

"But you don't remember who with," Quentin mumbles, just a little petulant.

He's looking down, so he doesn't see Margo pressing her lips together to keep the fond smile off her face - but Eliot does, and he knows his own expression is probably about the same. "Well, now that you're making that face about it," Margo sighs, smirking a little when Quentin doesn't seem to realize that his ensuing pout proves her point, "the hot Psychic girl who let me steal her notes told me she heard something interesting."

Quentin glances up like he can't help it, and she leans a bit further into his side, conspiratorial. "Apparently, if you do beat the odds - you know, find your soulmate, fall in love, and stick with them long enough to get to wherever you ended up during the spell - at that point, you remember everything from when you first cast it."

"Really?" Quentin asks, wide-eyed and immediately hopeful. "How often does that happen?"

"Probably not terribly often," Margo admits, letting go of his arm with a shrug. "But it's something, right?"

Watching Quentin smile back at her, Eliot almost manages to forget the point he's trying to make. "All due respect to hot Psychic girl," he sighs, forcing his eyes forward, "none of that changes the fact that the spell isn't even going to do anything for the vast majority of our class."

Quentin goes quiet again, but only for a second. "Do you think it'll work for you?" he asks Margo, undeterred interest clear in his voice.

"I'm not expecting much," Margo says, a little wry. "Like he said, statistically speaking, the odds aren't exactly in my favour." Eliot glances over in time to see her shrug again. "I'm not really interested in the commitment factor of a soulmate, to be honest."

He's sort of surprised she says it so easily. After the lecture last week and learning about the spell they'd be casting, he and Margo hadn't really discussed the specific reasons behind their mutual disdain for it. Eliot assumed they would eventually, of course, the same way they discuss everything - although admittedly, he wasn't exactly looking forward to baring his soul about this particular thing, even to Bambi.

He figured with enough alcohol he could get probably there, and if he couldn't, then— well, maybe he was sort of already planning to just parrot whatever Margo came up with, anyway. But he didn't expect her to just— lay it out, right here in the open, like that's a _thing_ they do— and now Quentin is turning his curious frown on _him_ instead, and Eliot doesn't have a chance to look away before their eyes catch.

"What about you?" Quentin asks, almost painfully genuine. "Do you think the spell will work?"

Eliot forces himself to laugh. "For me? God, no." There are very few things he's as sure of as he is of that. But Quentin doesn't understand - Eliot doesn't think even Margo does, not about this. 

He can't have a soulmate. It feels dangerous to even think about, let alone say out loud - like if he calls too much attention to himself, someone's going to notice everything else he's somehow gotten away with, and then they'll have to fix the mistake. He got lucky, getting here, meeting Margo - and Quentin too, now. That should be enough, right? If he added anything else, it would start looking too good to be true.

Besides, it's not like he's lying when he says he doesn't expect the spell to do anything. He _knows_ it won't, because it can't. End of story. Nobody needs the gory details, especially not Quentin. Eliot looks away from his growing frown with another forced scoff.

"If I wanted a weird trip that I wouldn't even remember taking, I'd ask the Naturalists," he says dryly. "Don't tell me you'd actually _want_ to be the one poor bastard in your class who gets singled out for a speed-date with destiny."

"I-I don't know, maybe," Quentin mumbles, sounding sheepish. "I mean, the spell probably wouldn't work for me, either, the way magic usually goes for me, but the— the idea is nice, you know? Like, fate and stuff." His voice gets a little softer at the end, and Eliot glances over before he can help it, watching him tuck his hair behind his ear almost shyly. "It's kind of— I don't know, romantic?"

He _would_ think that about the spell Eliot has been dreading for a week, wouldn't he? Eliot can admit it's sort of sweet, though, in the baffling way that most of Quentin's misplaced idealism is. He can even imagine it, Quentin with a soulmate - a future with some faceless, equally-nerdy girl and their shared Tolkien box sets. He kind of hates how easily the image comes to mind. 

When he pushes it away, Margo is rolling her eyes at Quentin, but she's not even bothering to hide her smile anymore. "We're still only learning this because of the whole Wellspring magic network thing," she reminds him, reaching up to flick his bangs back into his face. "The soulmate stuff is just to get sappy nerds like you to come to class."

"Still," Quentin huffs, taking his arm back and pawing her fingers away from his hair. "It must work for some people, right? Statistically?" He glances at Eliot for support, but barely gives him time to shrug before he plows on, grumbling a little. "And it's not like there aren't upsides to having a soulmate. It'd probably make dating a lot easier, for one thing."

"Not if you don't remember who you're supposed to be saving yourself for," Eliot points out, more to get another glimpse of Quentin's pout than to actually argue. "I'm just saying, if you decide not to dip your toes in the dating pool while you're waiting around for Miss Right to cross your path, that might be the very thing that makes you miss your chance to meet her."

"A lot of people who find out they have a soulmate just end up living life as if they didn't," Margo says, crossing her arms again. "Can't say I blame them. When the chances of finding the right person are so low, it's better to just go after what you know you want, right?"

"I guess," Quentin says reluctantly, frowning down at the path.

Eliot exchanges an amused look with Margo, wordless acknowledgement that they've clearly reached the teasing threshold with Quentin for the day. They're still a few steps from the edge of the quad where the path joins the main promenade, so there's a bit of time left to cheer him up before they part ways - but before they can set in on that, Quentin suddenly speaks up again, almost vehemently.

"But how do you just— ignore something like that?" he asks, brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "I mean, if I knew there was someone out there who was— I don't know, _meant_ for me, or whatever. I don't think I could just... let that go."

"No one says you have to," Margo says with a shrug, slipping out to walk ahead of them again as they reach the pavement. "If you'd rather cope by getting out there and searching far and wide for your destined bae, that's your prerogative. Just keep in mind that it's still a probability spell."

Quentin frowns at her back. "Yeah, so?"

"So nothing it shows you is definite," Eliot says. He tries not to sound condescending, but this _is_ the point he's been trying to make this whole time, so maybe it slips out a little. "It's just one possibility, one way things could happen. It's not a sure thing that you'll even end up wherever the spell takes you."

But Quentin doesn't seem as upset as he expects. "So what?" he asks, actually breathing a laugh as he looks up at Eliot, a hesitant sort of smile curving on his lips. "Isn't that all the more reason to— you know, fight for it?"

"Don't get all excited now," Margo chides where she's paused by the door to the nearest building. Eliot hadn't realized they'd even stopped. He blinks a few times to recenter himself before glancing at Quentin again, but his hopeful little smile has been replaced by a halfhearted pout. Margo hardly seems fazed by the look - or by the students on the other side of the door who keep having to detour to the side exit instead. "You'll still have to wait until next year to actually cast the thing and find out if you're one of the lucky few," she points out.

Quentin huffs at her. "Couldn't you just teach it to me?" he asks.

Margo raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "Honey, I barely do homework when it's assigned, let alone do extra just for fun." She smiles a second later though, reaching out to flick the ends of his hair again. "You're cute, but not _that_ cute."

"She doesn't mean it, Q," Eliot says, mostly on reflex, but it works well enough to get himself focused back on the situation at hand. "Look, why don't you head back to the Cottage?" he suggests, distracting Quentin from the playful glare he's shooting Margo. "We'll meet you there when Sunderland releases us." And hopefully, by then Quentin will have come up with something different to be fired up about, and Eliot will never have to think about this spell ever again.

For the moment though, Quentin looks a little disappointed again, like he's only just remembered that they're splitting up. Margo gives up her own teasing glare to pat his arm instead, her smile softening. "Hey, we might still have time for taste testing later, if you're not too worried about it being a school night."

Quentin turns a little pink, but Eliot can tell he's relieved. "Um, yeah, okay."

Watching him relax, Eliot has the sudden urge to touch, to slide his hand across Quentin's shoulders again, or brush his hair out of his face. Quentin even looks up at him after a second and smiles a little, like he can somehow sense it - or maybe Eliot is just staring at him. He smiles back and then turns away to join Margo at the door, pushing the weird impulse down as far as he can.

"See you later, Q," he says over his shoulder. "The liquor cabinet is warded, so we'll know if you try to start without us."

"Fine," Quentin sighs, delightfully dramatic. "I _guess_ I can find something to do until you get back."

"We won't be that long," Margo says, waving him off with a smirk. "If you want some quality time with Tolkien, you better start walking."

Quentin rolls his eyes, but he's grinning as he turns to head in the direction of the Cottage. Eliot watches him go until he has to look away to shake off the strange tight feeling trying to take root in his chest.

He turns back to Margo as she huffs out a sigh and looks up at him with a vaguely pained expression. "Last chance," she says, one hand on the door. "Wanna ditch?"

Oh god, does he ever. But that tightness is still pulling at him, just barely. "Better not," Eliot makes himself say. "I don't think Q could take the emotional whiplash."

Margo snorts and tugs the door open, and Eliot heads inside after her. He does not make one last glance over his shoulder at Quentin walking away, but he thinks about it.

The thing is, Eliot knows himself, and he knows what it feels like to have a stupid crush. Nevermind that it's already lasted much longer than the usual weekend it takes to get over these things, nevermind that Quentin somehow became his actual friend in the meantime - that just goes to show that he's right to place Quentin is firmly in the friendzone. Or maybe he's friendzoning himself, but either way, same difference.

Hearing about what happened between Quentin and Alice at Brakebills South was a wake-up call, whether or not anything actually came of it - Quentin should be off-limits. Eliot has a rule about straight boys for a reason, after all, and maybe he was willing to bend it last fall when Quentin was wide-eyed with awe about everything and followed him and Margo around like a lost puppy with bad taste in businesswear— but now, things are different. And Eliot isn't going to risk their friendship just to satisfy his own curiosity, or whatever. Quentin deserves better than that, anyway.

Still, there are some times, when he's particularly drunk or when Quentin is particularly close, that Eliot can imagine how easy it would be to let the whole thing to tip over into being _more_ than a crush. He can practically feel how precarious the balance is already. But again, he knows himself, and he knows letting that happen would be a bad idea for both of them.

Sometimes that still isn't quite enough to stop him from thinking about it, but it's fine. He'll get over it. He always does.

For now, though, Eliot can still privately look forward to spending the evening with him and Margo. Especially once he steps into Sunderland's classroom and the reality of the next hour hits him more solidly than it has all day.

Sunderland doesn't actually repeat the whole lecture from last week over again, but it sure feels like a close thing, supplemented by occasional asinine questions from classmates who clearly have nowhere better to be. Eliot manages about twenty minutes of attentiveness before giving up and halfheartedly scribbling cocktail plans in the margins of Margo's notebook instead. Margo lasts a little longer, but by the third time Todd puts his hand up she's fully checked out, committed to making Eliot's pen ink change colour by tapping her fingers. They tune back in when Sunderland starts to look a little impatient herself - whether because she wants to get on with it or because of Todd specifically, Eliot couldn't say.

"Innerste Augury isn't a scrying spell," she explains, leaning back against her desk. "It isn't about spectating future events. The caster has a very real influence on their surroundings for the short time the spell lasts. That's not to say any of you should get your hopes up," she adds, giving the class an almost droll look. "What's important is the spell theory. The Wellspring has more conduits than we may ever know or understand, neutral forces that affect this world and everyone in it, whether they know it or not. The connection between soulmates is just one example - rare, yes, but—"

"'It's the thought that counts'?" Eliot murmurs, making Margo bite back a laugh as Sunderland goes on. "I wasn't expecting such a positive spin to this."

"Not much you can do once you get to the guaranteed amnesia part," Margo snorts. "Memory loss doesn't actually sound so bad, if this goes on much longer. I might obliviate _myself_ in a second, here."

"I'll do yours if you do mine," Eliot offers solemnly. At that moment though, Sunderland starts to review the steps of the spell, and they both sit up a little to tune back in. "Do you think we'll get an automatic pass if the thing actually works?" Eliot sighs, flexing his fingers as he watches.

"That's just about the only way it'll be worth it," Margo mutters back, rolling her eyes. 

With the sequence fresh in their minds, the class spreads out around the room, Eliot sharing one last disdainful look with Margo before Sunderland gives them the go-ahead to cast. As he raises his hands, he tries not to think about soulmates, or the future, or anything else beyond letting instinct take over. He almost doesn't realize his heart is pounding until he's already moving through the tuts, but he refuses to let his hands shake. The spell isn't going to work, not for him, but it's sure as hell not going to be because his form was anything less than perfect.

He enunciates the required Old High German, feels the familiar spark of his magic weaving between his fingers, and has a vague moment of confusion as he reaches the last step and the feeling doesn't flicker out like he expects. Instead it spreads, tingling down his arms, and before he can do much more than take a breath, he's suddenly tipping backwards— 

Then Eliot wakes up, the sensation of falling jerking him out of sleep.

He's still in bed. It takes him a few seconds to work through the disorientation, his heart rate gradually slowing as he huffs out a sigh against his pillow. He's had dreams about performance anxiety before, but usually they take place in his bedroom, not in the middle of campus.

It's the stupid soulmate spell, it must be. Not that he's _stressed_ about the casting, or anything stupid like that - Sunderland just put way too much emphasis on it last class and it— got in his head, somehow. That's all.

The Margo in his dream even _mentioned_ dreams, didn't she? That should've been a clue. It's a little weird that he can still remember the conversation so clearly, though - usually his dreams fade out pretty quickly. Eliot supposes it might just be getting mixed up with his real memories of hanging out on the quad before class, gossiping with Margo, teasing Quentin, watching him get excited about whatever new spell he's just learned— pretty cruel of his subconscious to have Quentin latch onto the worst spell possible, but he can give points for accuracy.

He rolls over to look for the clock on his nightstand, already making a mental note to suggest staying _inside_ for the afternoon, no matter how tempting the February sunlight might seem— then pauses, squinting across half a bedspread he doesn't recognize.

This... isn't his bed, he realizes with a start. He abruptly sits up to glance around the room, his pulse starting to race again. This isn't even the Cottage, he doesn't think, this is somewhere else, somewhere with pale walls and bookshelves he's never seen before, a wide window with curtains shifting in the breeze, shadows of leaves caught in the sunlight - not to mention the king-size mattress, and the rumpled sheets between Eliot and the far edge of the bed, as if someone else was lying there until recently.

Eliot's fingers twitch as he remembers casting, speaking the words, making sure he did it right— could the spell have actually worked? Taken him to the future, _his_ future, his bedroom that he shares with his—

No, that's impossible. There's no way. That's not even supposed to be an option for him, he knows that.

But he knows he did the spell right. So where else could he be? 

After taking a few seconds to work up to it, Eliot manages to put his feet on the floor. The slide of the soft sheets against his bare legs is somehow both pleasant and a little uncomfortable - not that sleeping naked is unusual for him, but usually when he wakes up this way he at least knows where he is, if not when. He spots a silk robe hanging on the closet door and makes a beeline for it, deciding not to waste time wondering whose it is before he wraps up in it. On a slightly anxious whim, he also takes a chance on the top drawer of the dresser, and figures he's safe assuming the underwear there is his, judging by the folded argyle socks next to them.

Just as he's starting to feel accomplished, tying the robe around his waist and getting a real handle on the situation, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror in the corner and promptly does a double-take. It's not that his reflection is _off_ , or even unrecognizable - the person frozen on the other side of the glass is definitely, unmistakably him. But something in his face is different, and not just because it seems like he hasn't shaved in a few weeks.

Eliot manages to force himself a step closer, hardly daring to blink as he leans in to examine his reflection up close. The beard scruff is definitely new, and his hair is longer - no artfully styled quiff, just loose curls falling into his face, long enough that he could probably tie it back if he tried. He looks... older. How much, he's not sure, but definitely at least a few years.

He knows he just woke up, and he's not really sure what he expected either way, but seeing himself like this, so— _undone_ , is a little distressing. At the same time, he can tell that it's not for lack of care - his beard has been trimmed and his hair is soft, clearly maintained - so he's not, like, falling apart in the future, at least. Or if he is, he's gotten even better at hiding it. But then again, he knows what it feels like when he forgets to moisturize, and he's fairly sure, as he carefully touches his face, that this is not that.

It's not until he's gingerly prodding the faint lines at the corners of his eyes that Eliot notices the ring on his finger. It's nothing like any of the sleek vintage or pale stones he's used to, just an elegant silver band with faint etching on the outside. It reminds him of paisley, a bit, like more than one tie he owns. It's also on his left hand ring finger. But before Eliot can fully decide how much thought he wants to put into that, he hears a noise from somewhere beyond the bedroom and startles hard enough to nearly knock the whole mirror over.

It sounds a little like footsteps, like someone moving around a couple rooms away. A quiet creak of floorboards and maybe a few seconds of water running in a sink, then silence. Eliot stares at the bedroom door with his heart in his throat, but whoever is out there doesn't seem headed his way.

There are implications, of course, if someone else is here with him. Terrifying implications. He should take this as a cue to climb back into the big, soft bed and wait for the spell to run its course. It's only supposed to last a few minutes, after all.

But some tiny, traitorously curious part of him knows this could be his only chance to find out who his soulmate is, and that thought takes him across the room before he can really weigh the pros and cons.

He hesitates a moment longer with his hand on the doorknob, listening for movement on the other side, but all he can hear now is his own heartbeat in his ears. Very quietly, he pulls the door open.

On the other side is a short hallway with a few other doors, but the quiet shuffling is coming from around the corner, where a pool of sunlight is spilling through an open doorway. Eliot creeps past the other rooms, his heart hammering in his chest as the sounds of movement get more identifiable - the quiet scrape of a chair, a drawer closing, bare feet padding on hardwood.

For the first time, Eliot lets himself wonder who it could be. Some random guy he's never seen before in his life, probably. Or maybe it's Mike, or some other douchebag Eliot is destined to never be able to keep himself away from. Or maybe it's nobody, and this is the part where he finds out the spell didn't work after all, and the universe says _Nice try, but what did you honestly expect?_

Then he's one step from the open doorway and out of time to convince himself to stop. He considers peeking around the corner first, just to be safe— but no, he's not going to be a coward about this, no matter what kind of joke it ends up being. The sooner he gets it over with, the sooner he can pinch himself awake, or something. He lets himself have one more second to take a breath and brace for whatever impact is coming, then steps around the corner, and abruptly loses all his steeled determination.

He's ended up in a kitchen, bright with the early sunlight streaming in through the window over the sink, spreading across the countertops and the warm wood of the dining table in the center - but none of that holds Eliot's attention. There's someone standing at the counter, angled away but not far enough for Eliot to miss the unmistakable set of brow or slope of shoulders.

It's Quentin, somehow, in boxers and a t-shirt that rides up just a little as he reaches up to the closest cabinet. His hair is sleep-mussed like Eliot's, his bangs flopping into his face, but it's shorter than Eliot has ever seen it, curling just a little around his ears and clipped at the nape of his neck.

Before Eliot can fully process what he's blinking at, Quentin looks up, like he sensed Eliot come in, and— smiles, his eyes crinkling in a way that's somehow more familiar than anything else. "Hey."

"Hi," Eliot forces out. It's actually kind of a relief to see Quentin here, to know they're still friends, wherever and whenever this is. It doesn't really answer the question of why he's _here_ , in what's apparently Eliot's kitchen, looking like he just woke up - there's the obvious answer, of course, but Eliot is purposefully not letting himself think about that. He clears his throat and tries his best to sound casual as opposed to mildly freaking out. "What are you doing here?"

Quentin's smile turns a little wry as he sets down two mugs on the counter. "Well, I was _going_ to make breakfast before you woke up," he says, tilting his head toward the table, "but I guess I forgot that your spidey-senses go off if I even look at your coffeemaker, so." He pushes his weirdly-short bangs out of his eyes and starts toward Eliot, still dimpling. "I thought you'd want to sleep in after last night."

"Last night," Eliot repeats, wondering if he's going into shock. His heart is pounding, and there's definitely some weird feeling rising in his throat as Quentin moves closer to him. His usual faint stubble is grown out a little, and with his hair this short he looks— older, obviously, but also _grown up_ , comfortable and content. Like he's at ease in his skin in a way that Eliot has only ever seen once or twice, usually late at night and always with alcohol involved.

He can't make it add up in his head - the spell was supposed to take him to meet his soulmate, the only one here is Quentin, and the obvious conclusion is— impossible. It _can't_ be, there's no way. 

He tells himself that, firmly, but it's hard to make it stick while he's watching Quentin step into his space. He moves so surely, without any of the timidity or hesitation Eliot is used to. Eliot tries to take a step back, but his body doesn't seem to want to.

For a single electric moment that steals his breath, he's _sure_ Quentin is about to come up on his toes for a kiss— but Quentin pauses, his brow furrowing just a little as he looks up at Eliot. "You okay?"

"Uh-huh," Eliot says weakly, pasting on a smile. He's not sure if he should keep this whole bodyswap predicament to himself or tell Quentin what's going on - Sunderland neglected to offer tips on what to do if the spell actually worked, but surely the safest option is to just act natural until it wears off, right?

But then Quentin reaches out to touch his arm, and a glint of metal between his fingers catches Eliot's attention even more than the warmth of his palm. Quentin has a ring on his left hand too, silver like Eliot's, engraved with some sort of square pattern. Eliot lifts his hand almost without thinking, pausing with his fingers hovering over Quentin's - but he knows almost before the two rings are side-by-side that they match.

Which is— something. Eliot isn't sure what, exactly. Or maybe he is and his brain is just refusing to turn it over fully. He stares at the matching silver bands for what feels like a long time, trying to remember how to breathe, until Quentin's fingers tighten on his sleeve and he manages to shift his gaze back to him. Quentin is definitely suspicious now, brows drawn together as he searches Eliot's face. "Hey, seriously. You look like you're going to pass out."

Eliot almost manages to laugh at that. "Considering it," he says, his voice coming out much less strangled than he expects. "Um. So, listen. Not to sound like an embarrassingly hungover freshman, but— what year is it?"

Quentin gives him a bewildered look but recovers quickly, huffing out a laugh. "What? El, come on," he chides, running his hand down Eliot's arm. "You can't be _that_ hungover. You had, like, one glass of wine."

For a long second, Eliot can only stare at him in horror. "If you're about to tell me I quit drinking in the future, I really might faint."

"The future? What—" It takes a beat, but Eliot can almost hear the click of the pieces coming together in Quentin's mind as his eyes widen. "Oh," he breathes, his grip tightening again for a split second before he hurriedly takes his hand back. " _Oh_ , you mean you're— oh my god."

Quentin backs up a step before Eliot can react. He doesn't go far, just hovers at the edge of his space to blink a few times, like he's rebooting. Eliot feels almost nervous under his stare, which is stupid - it's just _Quentin_ , and he's definitely seen Eliot in much worse states than this - but his heartbeat is still too loud to focus on anything else when Quentin's gaze sweeps up to meet his.

"Hi," Quentin finally says. It's a little weak, but the awed smile spreading across his face makes up for it. "You're, um. You just came from Brakebills, right?"

Eliot nods, somewhat numbly, and Quentin's smile grows. "So this is— it's that probability spell, isn't it? Innerste Augury, from that class with Sunderland that you hated. I remember it worked for you, but— wow." He looks excited now, rather than stunned - which is good, probably, but Eliot is a little stuck on the intense déjà vu he gets from hearing Quentin say things that he remembers explaining to him not even an hour ago. Then again, if this really is the future, who knows how long ago that afternoon on the quad was to _this_ Quentin.

The thought makes Eliot's head spin. At least Quentin seems to still be just as enthusiastic where magic is concerned - not that Eliot can really imagine anything different, but all the same it's kind of a relief to see the curiosity in his eyes as he looks Eliot up and down.

"That spell really just drops you in wherever, huh," Quentin says, his expression turning thoughtful, like Eliot is a particularly intriguing silk-wrapped riddle that he's considering. "I mean, I don't know what I thought would happen, but— you know. Just. Unexpected."

"Yeah," Eliot says tightly. He wasn't really expecting his Ghost of Christmas Future to be a sleep-ruffled nerd either, but at least they're in the same boat. "A bit."

Quentin huffs a laugh, ducking his head a little in a move that's so familiar to Eliot that he can predict the exact moment Quentin reaches up to push his bangs back. He pauses there though, his eyes darting around the kitchen and then to Eliot, and then down at himself as it seems to suddenly dawn on him that they're both in various states of undress. Somehow, this is the realization that apparently inspires him to take charge of the situation, and Eliot catches himself biting back a snicker as Quentin straightens up and clears his throat.

"Okay, um, why don't you sit down," Quentin starts, stepping forward to wave Eliot over to the table. "I'll get dressed, and make, um, coffee? Or tea, or something, and we can— talk."

"Sure," Eliot says, abruptly aware of just how much focus it's taking to keep his knees from buckling. "Sitting first. Good idea."

Quentin pauses in the doorway that Eliot entered from, watching him lower himself into the closest chair. He looks like might have something else to say, hovering there with his lip caught between his teeth, but when Eliot raises an eyebrow at him, he blinks and quickly turns away.

"Right, okay, yeah," he pushes out in a rush, sidling further out the door. "Just— stay there, I'll be right back."

Eliot frowns a little as he watches him scurry away, but he's also distracted by the flash of Quentin's bare legs disappearing around the corner. He drags his eyes away from the doorway after a few seconds, shaking himself and refocusing on his unfamiliar surroundings instead.

The kitchen is pretty nice, now that he's taking a real look at it, bright and open with a lot of counter space. It's well-furnished too, all the appliances in matching chrome that he likes the look of, especially the double oven, and his apparently-beloved coffeemaker. There's a pleasant line of glass cannisters under the cabinets holding varying levels of flours and sugars, and a knife block in which none of the handles look unused. Eliot can admit he's impressed - and maybe a little jealous, even if he knows that's ridiculous. It's still difficult to keep it straight in his mind that all this is supposedly _his_.

The table and chairs in the middle of the room are old wood, warm and sturdy, but they seem a little incongruous with the modern lines and pale shades of the rest of the kitchen setup. Eliot imagines some sort of island with a sleek countertop would tie the room together, stylish and professional, the picture of culinary artistry— but at the same time, the table is... homey. Its presence shifts the atmosphere to something warmer, more lived-in.

He finds there's a lot of little things like that the more he looks around the room. The kitschy knit pot holders on a hook by the stove, the mason jar labelled _Friedrich Kneadzsche_ on the windowsill, even the two mugs Quentin abandoned on the counter - one emblazoned with some faded space movie logo that looks like it was probably heat-activated at some point, and another with bold block letters proclaiming _DADDY AF_ \- but it's the pictures on the fridge that draw Eliot's attention most of all.

There are a couple postcards from someone's exotic travels, and a holiday card featuring the largest doberman Eliot has ever seen, but beyond that, it's all photos. They're pinned in place with colourful magnets and featuring faces Eliot is a little surprised to find familiar, considering he doesn't remember any of the events depicted, but there they are - Julia, Margo, Kady, even Penny and Alice, alongside Quentin and, almost the strangest to see, himself.

There's one of him and Margo raising their glasses on a couch he doesn't recognize, him in a tux he knows he's never worn and her in a cocktail dress that matches his vest. Beside that is a shot of the two of them with Quentin, reclined in a pile on Margo's bed at the Cottage. They look a little inebriated in that one, but Eliot is sure he would've remembered the event regardless. He supposes the pictures must have all been taken in the however-many-year span between the present - _his_ present, back at Brakebills - and the future the spell has dropped him into.

The passage of time gets clearer the more photos he looks at - one of Margo, Alice, and Kady on a beach somewhere; another of Kady and Penny looking triumphant on what might be a mountaintop; another of Margo with Julia, mid-laugh with their arms around each other. That one is weird, but some are weirder, like the shot of Penny and Quentin standing less than a foot apart and looking happy about it.

There's also several pictures of all seven of them together, grinning against unfamiliar backdrops. A set of photostrips stacked under one magnet near the center catches Eliot's eye, the three shots on top showing their whole group crammed into a photo booth together. They're all in suits and dresses, which clearly didn't make fitting in front of the camera any easier - Quentin's bowtie is crooked, Eliot's hair is a mess, and everyone is a little bit blurry - but they all look so joyful that Eliot can't help being curious.

He's about to get up for a closer look when he hears footsteps in the hall. Eliot turns back to the doorway just as Quentin steps through it, now fully dressed and looking a little less sleep-ruffled. He's wearing dark jeans and a buttoned shirt that he's halfway through rolling up the sleeves of - no extra layers hiding the shape of his body, just a simple look that fits him nicely. Eliot is a little impressed by that, too.

Maybe Quentin gained a sense of style as he got older, Eliot muses, taking the opportunity to give him a once-over while he's fiddling with his sleeves. He's pretty sure Quentin wouldn't be dressing to show off the shape of his thighs and the dip of his waist without some guidance, so he must have finally let Eliot teach him some tailoring spells. Or maybe he didn't, and these clothes are something that someone picked out for him - that Eliot picked, maybe, something he knew would look good, and Quentin let him, _trusted_ him to—

To _focus_ , maybe, on the issue at hand instead of getting distracted every five seconds. Eliot shakes his head and forces his eyes up to Quentin's face, taking in his slightly anxious smile as he runs a hand through his still-strangely-short hair.

"Sorry I'm kind of all over the place," Quentin says sheepishly. "It's just— you know, exciting."

He comes over to join Eliot at the table, pulling out the chair across from him. Eliot drags his gaze away from Quentin's forearms and tries to look wry. "What, time travel?"

Quentin pauses with one hand on the back of the chair, frowning a little. "Well— yeah, I guess. But there's also, you know..." He trails off, looking at Eliot almost expectantly - until Eliot's blank stare seems to remind him of the aforementioned time travel factor.

"Right," he mumbles, shaking his head. "At this point, you must be in... second year, I think?" Eliot gives a stilted nod and watches Quentin let out a breath. "So we only just met."

And— well, he's not wrong, it's really only been a few months, but something in Eliot rears up defensively anyway. Quentin seems to see that in his face though, and softens into a smile as he sits down.

"I just mean that it's been a while since then, for me," he says gently, setting his hands on the table between them. Eliot can't decide if he's relieved or annoyed at how quickly his rankling is soothed, but Quentin seems to pick up on that too, his lips curling up a little more.

"I knew back then that the spell worked for you," he goes on, eagerness seeping back into his tone, "but neither of us had any idea— I mean, nobody remembers where it takes them, but it's still— it's nice to know." He's nearly grinning now, trying and failing to keep his excitement contained. "That it took you _here_ , I mean. To me." His gaze flits over Eliot's face with something like awe, eyes wide and bright. "That we're soulmates."

Hearing it spoken aloud has Eliot feeling a little winded, even without having been the one to actually say it. It's like he's not sure how to even think about the prospect, what angle to approach it from. The idea of having a soulmate at all was one thing, mostly baffling but still manageable, something he could deal with if he had to. People with soulmates get on without them all the time, after all. But his soulmate being _Quentin—_ that idea isn't just out of reach, it's on a whole separate plane of existence. He's not sure he could even imagine it now if he didn't have supposed proof sitting right across from him.

But there Quentin is, so maybe Eliot can at least, like, consider it. Give it a bit more thought than he did when he first walked in and froze at the sight of him, instead of just shoving the possibility away. How else could he have ended up here, anyway, other than by some massive cosmic fuck-up? That option still isn't necessarily out of the running, but Eliot can ignore it for a second and be— well, maybe not _rational_ about it, since that's just about the last thing he'd categorize this situation as, but. He can think about it.

He might have only known Quentin since the fall, but it's already impossible to quantify the amount of time they've spent together. There are hours of interactions in Eliot's memory, entire days' worth - and it's always so _easy_ to be around him, easy like it's only ever been with Margo, but not quite the same as that, either. Quentin has always been something different. Eliot knows that, even if he never let himself think about it. But does that even mean anything? How is he supposed to wrap his mind around something like _soulmates_ , something he can barely hold in his thoughts without shying away?

He's not sure if it helps or not that the Quentin at the table with him seems so at ease with the idea. Excited, yes, but also a little relieved, like he was somehow waiting for this, even though it must be just as much of a surprise for him as it is for Eliot. Even assuming that Quentin cast this spell himself at some point, he would've forgotten everything, including whoever he saw himself with. He probably still doesn't actually remember for sure, he's just trusting that Eliot showed up here for a reason.

Present Eliot, at least. His future self was already here with this future Quentin. And judging by how warmly Quentin had greeted him, how quickly he'd crossed the kitchen to lean in close— Eliot assumes he must be pretty at ease with that, too.

But right now, Quentin is still looking at him, waiting for his reaction. Eliot pushes those thoughts away and clears his throat, carefully folding his hands on the table and trying his best to look like he's at his resting heart rate.

"So, I— future me," Eliot starts, only faltering a little - he's not sure of the best way to talk about a version of himself that doesn't exist yet, at least to him. "He doesn't remember this? Casting the spell, showing up here?" _Finding you?_ he means to add, but his throat closes on it.

Quentin shakes his head. "No, only really vague details, nothing concrete. We haven't talked about it in a while, but, you know." He shrugs a little, smiling again. "There's not really much discussion to be had about something you don't remember. Not without getting repetitive, anyway."

Eliot knows he's supposed to forget all of this, he even remembers telling Quentin so - but for the moment, he can't imagine any of it slipping away. He feels completely lucid, and everything here is stable, nothing like the warped and smudged surrealism of a dream. Maybe it's not logical, or especially plausible, as far as the apparent plot up to this point, but it's all... distinct, from the wood under his hands to Quentin's presence across from him.

He wonders if maybe he did remember, and lied about it - that honestly doesn't sound out of character for a future version of himself - but once again, Quentin gets a look like he knows what Eliot is thinking. "If any of it came back to you, you would've told me," Quentin assures him, brushing his hair back with a breath of laughter. "I was pretty annoying about it for a while, and you definitely remember that." 

He sounds a little nostalgic, but mostly just fond, and Eliot finds it's easier than he expects to let Quentin's confidence settle his thoughts. A vague discomfort comes with it, though - when Quentin says _you_ , he means someone different. Eliot can't not be aware that that person isn't really him.

 _Not yet_ , his brain supplies automatically, like a reflex. Eliot gives himself one bewildered second to wonder where the fuck _that_ came from before he shoves the strange thought away as Quentin turns his gaze back on him.

"But hey, it's all fresh in your mind right now, isn't it?" he asks, giving Eliot a weirdly intense look. "Casting the thing, getting here?"

"More or less," Eliot says, only slightly wary. Quentin brightens into another eager smile and, after a moment, waves an encouraging hand at him.

"So tell me how it worked," he urges, still beaming at Eliot. "What did it feel like?"

His familiar wide-eyed look has Eliot smiling back at him almost before he registers how much of a relief it is to see. Quentin being an insufferable nerd about any and all magic feels like it should probably be a given, no matter where - or when - he is— but here, to Eliot, it's a grounding, reliable detail. This, at least, he knows.

And he does try to think back to the casting, to the tingle of magic he felt spreading up his arms and through his chest. Was there something tugging at him just before everything tilted, or was that the tight feeling that was already there?

"I honestly didn't think it _would_ work," Eliot says, even managing to sound, in his opinion, pretty offhand about it. "It was more confusing than anything, when it did. It was like… falling, I guess. I had enough time to wonder what the fuck was happening and feel my center of gravity go out the window, then I woke up in bed." In our bed, he doesn't say. He's not sure where that impulse comes from, either.

"Woke up?" Quentin repeats. "Like, out of sleep?"

Eliot nods. "I thought the whole thing was a dream, for a second." He's not sure if there was another option available, as far as arrivals went, but it probably would've been even more disorienting if he'd taken over his future self's consciousness in the middle of the day. He furrows his brow as that thought leads to another. "What happens to future me while I'm here, do you think?"

"I'm not really sure," Quentin admits, frowning like he hasn't considered it before. "I guess he's, like... asleep? Or— dormant, maybe. That's probably a better word." He pauses a moment longer before he looks up at Eliot again, lips quirking just a little. "I guess you'll find out when it happens to you."

As weird as it is to even begin to think about, Eliot supposes he's right. But it's still hard to picture his future self as that, as _his future_ , and not some separate entity entirely disconnected from him. A stranger whose life he's stepped into by accident.

"Well," Eliot says on a sigh, hoping this new strange twist of discomfort goes out with it, "sorry for, you know. Body snatching." He takes another short glance around the room, at the mugs on the counter and the pictures on the fridge, then looks back down at his hands on the table. "For what it's worth, I swear it was unintentional."

"Hey, I don't mind," Quentin assures him with a shrug. When Eliot peeks up at him, he still has that tiny smile on his face. "I told you, it's exciting. And you're the one getting a glimpse of your future."

Eliot makes himself huff a laugh. "It's been a bit more than a glimpse," he says, then frowns as his own words sink in. "Although— isn't this whole thing only supposed to last a few minutes?"

"Now that you mention it," Quentin hums, brow furrowing. "I thought so, but... well, how long has it been since you, you know, woke up?"

"I don't know." How long have they even been sitting here talking? "At least ten minutes, maybe a bit more?"

Quentin hums again, tilting his head a little. "And how do you feel now? I mean, is it like, um—" He gestures vaguely while he searches for the words.

"Like I'm about to be beamed back to the present at any moment?" Eliot offers, smirking at Quentin's sheepish grin before he can help it. "Not especially. I feel pretty solid, for the time being."

"Okay," Quentin says, half a laugh, and pushes his bangs out of his face. "Good."

Eliot isn't sure if _good_ is the first word he'd use, but Quentin does seem to know more about the spell than he does. "So when is it going to wear off?" he prompts, after a beat.

Quentin shrugs again. "Who knows? Maybe the time limit was exaggerated, or maybe— maybe it's different because we already knew each other. Before you did the spell, I mean. Something like that. But whatever it is," he says, smiling as he reaches across the table, "I'm happy you're here. However long it lasts."

Eliot somehow doesn't realize what he's reaching for until the tentative brush of Quentin's fingers against his knuckles nearly makes him jump. He tugs his hands away under the guise of sitting up straighter, but watching Quentin's palm hover and then retreat back across the table, he's not even sure why he did it.

It's not like he's never touched Quentin's hands before, or any other part of him. Eliot touches him all the time in the present, constantly draping an arm over his shoulders or tugging him along by the elbow or pulling him down into seats by his wrist. Even earlier today, he had Quentin tucked against his side while he explained part of this very spell. It's not something he's ever flinched away from, not with Q.

But here— it would be different, somehow. It would mean something else, something _more_ , and even without knowing exactly what that is, Eliot knows it's not something he should intrude on. He's not whoever this Quentin thinks he's reaching for, anyway.

That doesn't stop him from feeling bad about it, though. When he risks a glance across the table he catches the very edge of the hurt just on its way out of Quentin's expression, like he's pushing it away on purpose. A second later he sighs, folding his arms and leaning on the table.

"I wonder why it took you here, though," he muses, brow furrowed at the tabletop. "Like, to this day specifically."

"Why, what day is it?" Eliot asks, eagerly latching onto the change in subject.

"That's what I mean," Quentin says, shaking his head. "It's not really— like, yesterday was more significant, but I guess it's just... random?"

His tiny, confused frown nearly distracts Eliot from his point. "What happened yesterday?"

"It was— well," Quentin falters, suddenly giving Eliot an anxious glance. "I'm not sure I should tell you. Not because— I just mean, I don't think I should reveal too much, just in case of, um, time travel rules, you know?" Eliot doesn't, but Quentin keeps rambling, gesturing nervously across the table. "Like, we don't know if this is a _Prisoner of Azkaban_ situation or a _A Sound of Thunder_ situation. Or I guess _Looper_ is sort of a possibility too, but the spell only brings your consciousness, not your whole body, so maybe we can rule that out."

Eliot has no idea what he's talking about. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he says, when Quentin pauses for breath. "Can you please just tell me what year it is? Or how old I'm supposed to be, or where we are, or— something." He starts to scrub a tired hand over his face, but the scrape of his beard against his fingers is uncomfortably unfamiliar. He spreads his palms on the table instead, taking a breath and trying not to sound as impatient as he feels. "The way the spell's supposed to work, I'm not going to remember any of this anyway."

Quentin frowns, something not-quite-hurt flitting across his face before Eliot can get a read on it. "I guess you're right. But maybe if I keep it vague, you'll have some, you know, plausible deniability or whatever." He glances at Eliot - maybe for approval, maybe just to make sure he's not completely checked out - then clears his throat and leans his elbows on the table again.

"Okay, um— since we met," he starts, eyes down, "it's been about... ten years."

"Ten years," Eliot repeats, more to give himself time to absorb it than anything. If he wasn't reeling before, he definitely is now. He thinks of his reflection in the mirror, the faint lines on his face. "So I'm… thirty-something."

"Early thirty-something, if anybody asks," Quentin says, glancing up with a wry little smile. "You're kind of particular about the distinction. As for where you are— we're at home right now. This is our house."

Eliot had kind of assumed the answer to that one already, but the confirmation makes him glance around the kitchen again, his chest a little tight. His gaze lingers on the doorway he came in through, thinking of the other doors he saw in the hallway, and the bedroom he woke up in. He kind of regrets not exploring more, considering he has limited time.

He means to say as much when he looks back at Quentin, but his eye catches on the ring on his finger instead, glinting a little in the sun as Quentin runs a hand through his hair again. Eliot is suddenly acutely aware of the matching silver on his own finger, and notices that he's been stroking over the etching unthinkingly, like it's a habit. His first impulse is to hide his hands in his lap, but— maybe he wants confirmation on this, too.

He swallows dryly before turning his left palm up, letting his own ring catch the sun, watching Quentin's eyes flick down to it. "And we're…"

He trails off before his voice can waver, but Quentin smiles at him again, dimples showing. "Married, yeah."

Eliot takes that in, turns it over in his mind, and tries to set it down. His heart is suddenly beating too hard for it to balance quite right. "For tax reasons?"

"No, for normal reasons," Quentin says with a laugh, rolling his eyes. "God, you haven't made _that_ joke in a while."

It wasn't really a joke, but Eliot doesn't think saying that will help much. He tries to smile, or look down, or react in some way that isn't just sitting frozen while his pulse races, but his body refuses to do anything else. Maybe he's going into shock after all.

He thinks he's at least managed to keep his disbelief off his face, until he catches Quentin's eyebrows drawing gently together, his gaze softening. "We're not together yet, in your time," he says quietly.

It's not a question - Quentin would know, of course, would remember better than Eliot does - but he still seems to be waiting for an answer.

"No," Eliot manages, willing his voice not to shake. He swallows past the strangled laugh trying to climb up his throat as he thinks back to the Brakebills South rumours, Quentin and Alice, Shrödinger's hook-up. "I didn't even think that you were…"

Quentin lets him trail off, his smile going a bit tight before he huffs an almost sardonic breath. "Yeah, I know you don't."

The split second of passive-aggression is so weirdly familiar it startles Eliot back to himself, flitting through more than a few memories of the same expression but ten years younger— but then Quentin shakes his head, and it passes.

"It's fine," he sighs, like he's annoyed but trying not to be. "We have a fight about your biphobic bullshit at some point. Probably pretty soon, for you. For now, just— trust me, okay?" He looks up at Eliot and smiles again, a little hesitant but still sure. That expression is familiar, too. "You marry for love, not for taxes."

Something in Eliot's chest lurches, trilling in a way he doesn't really want to examine too closely. He does his best to smother it, managing a weak chuckle as he looks away across the kitchen in search of— literally _any_ other topic, as long as it gets them off of this one. His gaze lands on the fridge again, and he latches onto the displayed photos like a lifeline. 

"So what about the others?" he asks, mostly steady. "What've they all been up to while we've been—" Married, he almost says, before he cuts himself off and tries again. "While we've been here?"

Quentin follows his gaze and, to Eliot's relief, perks up immediately. "Oh! Right, well— we still get together pretty often," he says with a grin, his eyes trailing fondly over the photos. "Not all of us all the time, since, you know, work is a thing. But every couple weeks, for sure. Usually at Kady's place - she has this crazy penthouse apartment downtown, with her coven."

Eliot raises his eyebrows. "Oh, so she fully leaned into the Hedge thing?"

Quentin starts to nod before his brain seems to catch up with his mouth. "That's... kind of a spoiler," he says, glancing back across the table with a grimace. "Maybe I'm saying too much."

"Come on," Eliot laughs, wheedling mostly just to keep Quentin's focus where it is. "There's, what, a decade of gossip I've missed?"

Grinning again, Quentin rolls his eyes. "And if Margo were here, she'd be more than happy to catch you up."

Eliot returns his wry look, but hearing Margo's name makes his pulse jump. God, if only she _were_ here - maybe with her presence, he'd feel a bit more like he has both hands on the wheel. And beyond that, even a glimpse of future-Margo would undoubtedly be a sight to behold. "I can't imagine she'd pay much mind to spoilers," he hums.

Quentin snorts. "Yeah, probably not."

Enticing as the idea is, Eliot knows it wouldn't be the same as having _his_ Margo here. Just thinking about it makes Eliot miss her, a soft pang behind his ribs. It's sort of ridiculous, considering he saw her in class literally just a few minutes ago, but knowing it's ridiculous doesn't actually do anything to quell the feeling.

Some part of that must show on his face for a second, because Quentin's gaze softens when Eliot meets his eyes again. "Look, I can't give you the details," he says, a bit quieter, "but I _can_ tell you she's off being important and scary somewhere. And she's really, really good at it."

Eliot can't help a real smile at that. "Of course she is," he sighs, feeling something loosen in his chest.

Steadier now, he crosses his legs and leans his chin on his fist, fixing Quentin with a more playful look. "Can I ask you something a touch more serious? Not about anyone's post-grad prospects, I promise." Quentin nods, meeting his stare with an attentive focus that nearly drives the question from Eliot's mind. "What in god's name did you do to your hair?"

Quentin seems bewildered for a split second before he catches onto Eliot's smirk and relaxes. "I guess it's a little different than you're used to, huh," he says, swiping one hand up the back of his neck with a shy smile. "I, uh, cut it. Clearly."

"Just trying a new look?" Eliot asks, watching Quentin's fingers trail through the short strands. "Or should future me be worried about an oncoming mid-life crisis?"

"I'm pretty sure future you asked me that exact same thing already," Quentin says wryly. "The answer is still 'fuck off'."

Eliot grins back at him, not bothering to hide his delight. "At least tell me we gave it a going away party. All two-and-a-half feet of it, or whatever."

"It wasn't _that_ long," Quentin laughs, rolling his eyes again. "I cut right after Brakebills, too - not this short, but still." He keeps touching his hair while he talks, almost absently, like he can't help it. Eliot tries valiantly to keep his focus on Quentin's sheepish expression instead. "I think back then it was an effort to— I don't know, look like a real adult, or something? I didn't end up liking it much, so I grew it out."

"So what inspired the chop this time?" Eliot asks, raising an eyebrow when Quentin hesitates.  
"In the vaguest possible terms, if you must."

Quentin shoots him an apologetic smile. "There's just this... thing, that we've been talking about, hypothetically, so— just, you know. Adulthood, looking the part, all that." He waves one hand and uses the other to push his bangs back, clearly expecting them to stay behind his ear and huffing a little when they don't. "The point is, I guess this is my go-to stress response now, but I'm not really sure I like it any better than last time." He gives Eliot an accusatory look. "You definitely don't."

Eliot laughs, more out of shock than anything. "What? Why not?"

"You should know," Quentin says with a pout, but it's mostly playful, and he can't seem to hold it for long. "You said it reinforced my 'straight guy vibe'."

Well. Now that he's saying it, air-quotes and all, maybe Eliot shouldn't be surprised that he agrees. But that aside, Quentin's hair is fine. Cute, even. Grown up but not boring, and still floppy enough to play around with - or so Eliot imagines, anyway. Even if it does give off unfortunate hetero vibes.

He can admit he kind of misses the length, if not just for the way his Quentin - _present_ Quentin, his brain loudly corrects - ties it back or tucks it behind his ears. But Eliot thinks he could get used to it. His future self is probably laying it on a little thick just for the sake of it. That's what he would do, at least. Any version of Quentin is probably equally easy to tease. 

It's then that Eliot realizes he's been staring across the table for at least a good few seconds, and Quentin is just— looking back at him, unfazed. "Any other gravely serious questions?" he asks, smiling softly again.

Eliot makes himself look away before he does something stupid like forget how to blink, and latches onto the first thing that comes to mind. "What were we doing yesterday?" 

Quentin didn't give him an answer when he asked before, but this time he grins right away. "We were celebrating," he says, his vow to keep things vague apparently forgotten. "It was our anniversary."

"Oh." Eliot's mouth suddenly feels very dry. "Like. A year, or—?"

"Six," Quentin corrects, sounding proud even as he ducks his head a little shyly. "We didn't do anything, like, super fancy - not like _last_ year, which was— you planned this whole day out in the city, and then this huge surprise dinner party with everyone, and I found out afterwards that Julia had to talk you out of renting a whole ballroom or something ridiculous—"

Eliot can only blink back at him, watching him wave his hands around until Quentin seems to realize how wildly he's gesticulating and attempts to reign it in. "But, um, this year," he says, rubbing one hand across the back of his neck again, "we both decided to just. Stay in. You know, make dinner and— well, _you_ made dinner, I watched. But it was really nice, just having a night to ourselves." After smiling for a second, he huffs a laugh and rolls his eyes. "I probably won't get away with that two years in a row, though. And I'm sure you're already making plans to do something insanely over-the-top for our tenth."

To his surprise, Eliot catches himself almost nodding along. It doesn't quite sound out of character, is the thing - neither the extravagant plans nor the stay-at-home ones. But there aren't many anniversaries he's ever celebrated, for _anything_ , let alone relationship milestones. His personal best is, what, a few months before losing interest or fucking up? But here, he's apparently managed to keep what he has, not only long enough to have an anniversary, but to have _six of them,_ to be looking forward to another milestone—

And imagining spending a night in with Quentin, making him dinner, celebrating— for a moment it comes so easily that Eliot is desperate to know how he did it. How his future self managed to pull all this off, and how he can make sure that he gets here, too.

"So in my time, in the present," he starts, only half-knowing what he's going to say, "we're not— we just met, like you said." Quentin nods even as his brows draw together confusedly, but Eliot keeps going before he can interrupt. "But you know what happens, right? You know how we— how we get together?"

"It'd be kind of awkward if I didn't," Quentin says with a snicker, then shakes his head. "But there's no way I'm spoiling that for you. Even if you won't remember."

Eliot wants to press him on it, but his throat is suddenly too tight to speak through, like his body has finally caught on and is stopping him from saying anything else. Quentin must read his silence as annoyance though, because his smile gets a bit softer as he leans forward.

"Hey, how about a compromise?" he asks, voice gentle. "I can show you around the house, if you want? Just don't ask me about, like, specific events, and it'll probably be fine."

"Wait," Eliot forces out as Quentin pushes his chair back. "You learned this spell too, didn't you? Innerste Augury? You must have cast it yourself at some point."

"Um, yes, ages ago," Quentin says, slowly standing up. "In second year, like you."

"So it must have brought you here," Eliot stresses. "Or somewhere like this, right? Somewhere with— with me." 

"Probably," Quentin agrees. "I mean, that'd make sense, but I don't remember for sure." He frowns down at the table for a second, brow furrowed. "I know the spell worked, I know I went— _somewhere_ , but all the details are still fuzzy." Giving his head another shake, he glances up at Eliot with a smile. "I honestly wasn't sure who my soulmate was until you showed up today."

He looks relieved, but Eliot feels his throat constricting again. He can't help thinking of the walk through the quad earlier, and Quentin's incredulity at the idea of giving up on finding whoever the spell took him to, even if he didn't remember who they were - _how do you just ignore something like that?_ He had been so earnestly uncomprehending, as if spending his life with anyone other than his soulmate was unthinkable, and yet—

Here they are, six anniversaries down, who knows how long before that, and Quentin still doesn't actually remember— 

Eliot senses a tremor waiting at the edge of his voice and drops his gaze to bite it back. "But if you weren't sure before now," he pushes out, "if you didn't know it was me, then— why did you—" 

"Fall in love with you?" Quentin finishes, quieter than before.

It's not exactly what Eliot was going to say, but it's startlingly, uncomfortably close to what he meant. Before he can do much more than snap his mouth shut, Quentin lets out a breath and starts to come around the table.

"There are two answers, I guess," Quentin says, letting his fingers trail across the tabletop. "Now that you're here, and we know we're soulmates, I _could_ say it's because of that. Like, because we're meant to be together." He stops at the corner closest to Eliot, hovering there for a moment before he breathes a laugh. "But I know you'd think that's some kind of bullshit runaround."

Eliot can't stop himself from looking up to catch the edge of Quentin's wry little smile just before it melts away. Quentin isn't looking back though, his eyes are down instead, his expression turning pensive.

"The real answer is... I didn't want anyone else," he says softly, almost like he's talking more to himself than to Eliot. "It didn't matter who my soulmate was, because I wanted to be with you."

It hangs in the air between them for a second, quiet except for Eliot's heart thudding almost painfully in his chest. He tries to come up with a response, but his breath can only shudder out of him. What does he even do with that? With the shivery, terrifying flare of yearning that it drags up through his ribs?

Quentin doesn't push, though, just takes another step closer and holds his hand out. "Let me show you around," he offers again, voice softer still, meeting Eliot's gaze with a shy smile. "You still seem pretty solid, so I think we have time."

Eliot honestly isn't sure on the solid part anymore, but he tries his best to get the wobbly feeling under control before he takes Quentin's hand. Quentin's fingers slide warm over his as he stands up, steady and grounding, and he doesn't seem to mind when Eliot grips back a little harder than he means to.

Quentin leads him out of the kitchen through a set of French doors Eliot didn't notice before, into a cozy-looking den. There's a sectional couch with a knitted blanket tossed over one arm, bookshelves along the wall, and a cushy rug on the floor, along with a shelf of houseplants they pass near the doorway. There's even a bar cart in the corner that seems mostly for decor purposes but still well-stocked, and beside that, an antique clock ticking along quietly. Across the room is what must be their front door, and a few paces away behind the couch is a wide bay window letting sunlight in.

Eliot glances at some of the shinier trinkets on the bookshelves as Quentin leads him past, gesturing his way one-handed through the story of their brief dip into magical real estate and the very apparent wonders of Thibadeau's Planar Compression. He seems a little nervous, actually, like he wants Eliot to like it - which, Eliot finds, is kind of hard not to do. It's still sort of weird to look around and see evidence of the space being lived-in - the low table by the couch bearing coasters and yet another abandoned mug, the little hook for house keys beside the door, the ragged edge of the couch quilt - but it's quietly thrilling, too. Somehow, the room already feels a bit familiar.

"We're still in New York, right?" Eliot asks, just to make sure.

"Where else?" Quentin snorts as he tugs Eliot toward the window. There's a seat there, a little reading nook with a pillow and a well-worn paperback. Eliot can easily picture Quentin curling up there, or even himself, peering down at the tree-lined street below.

It looks like— well, sort of his dream neighbourhood, if Eliot lets himself go there - historic brownstones, brick stairs with iron rails, leaf strewn sidewalks. He looks down at the steps leading to their door and can see a few small pots lining either side of the railing, each with a different plant sprouting, like a little herb garden. He wonders if that's his or Quentin's.

"We saw some places that were even bigger than this," Quentin says beside him. "On the inside, I mean. But we both decided we didn't need, like, six empty rooms, so…" When Eliot turns back to face him, Quentin is looking around the entryway instead, a proud little smile on his mouth. "Either way, it's, um... it's ours."

The word seems to echo in Eliot's mind for a second, but by the time Quentin starts to gently tug on his hand again, he mostly manages to quiet it down. He lets himself be led into the hallway and past the door he knows leads to the bedroom, sort of grateful that Quentin skips over it, to peer through the doorways he ignored on his first pass. There's a tiny laundry room, a bathroom with a magically-expanded tub, and then Margo's room - technically their guest bedroom, Quentin explains, but it hasn't ever been used by anyone other than her.

Eliot can't help a smile at the thought of her having a permanent space in their house. It's a pretty big relief, actually, looking around at her personalized decor, the book on the nightstand, the jumble of shoes at the foot of the bed, the purse hanging on the back of a chair. He already knew there was no chance Margo _wouldn't_ be a part of his life, no matter how many years down the road they were, but tangible proof is nice, too.

"She travels a lot for work, so this is kind of like her waystation," Quentin says, smiling when Eliot turns back to him. "She's gonna be pissed she missed out on seeing you, though."

That, Eliot doesn't doubt. If future Bambi is anything like her present self, both Quentin and future Eliot are probably in for it.

Across the hall from the kitchen is a dining room with a candle-laden chandelier and enough space at the polished wood table to entertain at least ten, and at the end of the hall is a staircase. Eliot pauses when Quentin makes to lead him up though, noticing one last door they nearly bypassed.

"What about this?" he asks, backtracking to nudge it open. He's half-expecting another guest room, but it's empty, with plain walls and no furniture.

"Oh, right," Quentin says, sounding a bit nervous again. "This, um, used to be a hall closet."

"More Planar Compression?" Eliot guesses, raising an eyebrow at him. "I thought you said we didn't need a bunch of empty rooms."

"Well, it probably won't be staying empty," Quentin says quickly, already drawing Eliot back down the hall. "Um, anyway— wanna see your office?"

His evasiveness makes Eliot a little suspicious, but curiosity wins out as they start up the stairs. On the upper landing there are two doors on opposite walls, each with strong wards, though Quentin easily parts through the spells to open the first one. Inside is a room with higher ceilings than the building dimensions should probably allow for, one half devoted to a workspace around a dark oak desk and the other more of a sitting room with a tufted loveseat. Eliot is impressed that the furnishings are so much to his tastes until he remembers that Quentin said this office was his.

"Do I do actual work up here?" he asks, stepping carefully across the threshold. "Or did I just want another room to decorate?"

"You do have a real job, if that's what you're asking," Quentin snickers. He lets Eliot lead the way further into the room, patiently holding his hand while he looks around.

The desk is tidy, with a fancy inkwell and a line of tiny clocks all displaying different times, as well as a mirror in one corner. On a shelf behind it, there's a set of binders with colour-coded labels that say things like _Permits_ , _Spellwork_ , _Performers_ , and, inexplicably, _Elders Bullshit_. "So what, pray tell, is my occupation, exactly?" Eliot asks.

As predicted, Quentin hesitates. "Um... you're an event planner. Sort of."

Eliot hums, glancing over the huge rolling chalkboards along the wall, each with a month plotted out full of notes and arrows and deadlines. The furthest board has a whole week blocked off in the middle labelled _SHOWTIME_ , which, along with the sideways _IBIZA_ noted beside it, Eliot supposes narrows down the specifics a bit. "I can live with that."

As the two of them finish their lap of the room, Eliot finds he's still more interested in the decor than anything else, the bits and pieces of his future self around the space. The mostly-full whisky decanter behind the desk, the framed playbills next to the door, the Leyendecker print above the sofa - maybe it's still just the novelty of seeing his own tastes laid out, but it all feels— _right_ in a weird way that Eliot doesn't think he could describe if asked.

Luckily, Quentin doesn't. He closes the office door behind them and takes Eliot across the landing to the opposite door. "So this one's yours?" Eliot guesses as Quentin parts the wards with a wave of his hand.

"Yeah. It's, um, a little different." He glances up at Eliot almost sheepishly. "Just— don't touch anything, okay?"

Eliot raises his eyebrows, intrigued. "Why, what do _you_ do for work?"

That proud look returns to Quentin's face for a moment, playing around his mouth. "I fix things."

As soon as he opens the door, Eliot can feel magic almost wafting through it, even before he takes a look inside. It's like part library, part craft room, with a hint of garage workshop, but in a good way. There's a massive cabinet against the wall with about a thousand different drawers, some unable to close due to papers or twigs or other extremities sticking out. Every other surface is covered in either books or spindly instruments or half-full tool rolls - except the wide worktable under the window, which is clear but for a magnifying glass and what looks like a pendant necklace.

Quentin doesn't let him get too close to it, keeping within a few steps of the door, but there's enough else to look at that Eliot doesn't mind. Beyond the very particular sort of organized clutter, there are other pieces of Quentin around the room that are unfamiliar and yet unsurprising, seeming _right_ in the same way that Eliot's office did - the map on the wall that's almost certainly depicting some fantasy country, for one. There are also things that make Eliot more curious, though, like the model plane hanging in the corner, and the pocketwatch in a glass frame on the wall.

He almost asks Quentin about that as they leave, but something tells him he shouldn't. Not only would Quentin probably not give him an answer, but even if he did, it would feel like— cheating, somehow. Eliot knows it shouldn't matter, knows that even if he got Quentin to explain every beat of the past decade to him, he'd forget all of it as soon as the spell wears off. But still, as much as he wonders about how the two of them have changed, how their _lives_ have changed, he doesn't think he actually wants to know, just yet.

Besides, he doesn't need an explanation for the changes he can see right in front of him. Quentin is older here, obviously, but there are other, subtler things that Eliot didn't notice at first, like how easily he leads Eliot around by the hand, and that little bit of pride in his smile. It's clear that he's settled, not only here in this house, but in himself. In whatever happiness he's found in both.

He's very different from the boy Eliot remembers watching come wandering over the Brakebills lawn toward him, dressed in too many layers with his mouth agape and confusion clear on his flushed face - not in a bad way, just... hard to ignore. But if all that he's said about where they end up is true, then Eliot will get to watch the transformation, won't he? All ten-ish years of it?

It's a nice thought, sure, but Eliot knows himself. He knows how good he is at performing change while still keeping the same things hidden underneath. And it's not actually a sure thing that he'll get here, anyway - this place, this future, is only a possibility, and not a very likely one, at that. How could it be, when Eliot can't not be aware of the way Quentin trails off sometimes, or pauses only to catch himself up, like he's expecting Eliot to finish his thought, and Eliot just— can't? There's a rhythm here that he's out of sync with, and he has no idea how to fall in with it.

Maybe that's proof enough. Maybe he's the dissonant note because he's not supposed to be here at all.

Quentin glances at him over his shoulder as they come back down to the main floor, and Eliot is quick to paste on a smile. He can enjoy this a little longer, can't he? No one has to know. He'll play the part just until the spell sends him back, and then he'll forget he ever came here, and the pit in his stomach, and that he ever tried to imagine he could have it this good.

He keeps his eyes down as he follows Quentin down the hall, trying to center himself in the role before the tour ends in a few steps. He just needs something else to focus on, something harmless to get Quentin rambling for whatever time they have left.

"Is this floor original hardwood?" he asks, hoping it sounds casual rather than forced.

"It is, even though I'm still not really sure what that means," Quentin says amiably as he leads the way back to the living room. "You did the sanding and staining yourself. There was carpet when we first came to look, but we pulled it all up basically as soon as we moved in. You said it reminded you of the farmhouse."

Eliot freezes, staring after him. "What?"

"You told me it was kind of therapeutic, actually," Quentin says, huffing a laugh as he gestures around the room. "Like some sort of big 'fuck you' to your dad, you know, using your repressed handyman skills to make this place—"

"My—" Eliot cuts himself off as his throat closes, all the breath knocked out of him. Quentin turns around, amused at first until realization crosses his face, and somehow that's even worse than the soft concern Eliot expected, because it means— "You know about that?" he asks, forcing the words out, hating how small he sounds. "The farm, my— my dad?"

Quentin puts on a gentle smile that Eliot can hardly look at, and nods as he steps closer. "You told me."

Eliot wants to laugh again, to back away from him or run, but all he can manage is numbly shaking his head. "No, I— I wouldn't have." He hasn't told that story to anybody but Margo. He'd kind of been assuming he'd never need to bring it up with anyone else.

He's trembling now, he can feel it when he tries to take a step back, but Quentin keeps coming, close enough to reach for his hand. "It's okay, El—"

"It's not," Eliot snaps. It feels— _wrong_ , to even think about Indiana in this place. Like the walls should be crumbling around him, the vision curdling before his eyes. How could any of this be possible if Quentin knows where he came from, what he is underneath everything he’s pasted over top?

But the walls stay where they are, and so does Quentin, still reaching out to him. "I know you, Eliot," he says, soft but unwavering. He takes Eliot's hand in both of his and looks up into his face, no longer shy at all. "Every part. Is it really so hard to believe that?"

Yes, Eliot wants to say. Yes, because there's no way you know everything and still look at me like that. "You don't get it," he forces out instead, voice thick. "In my time, I-I'm not— this. I'm not this person."

"You're right, you're not," Quentin agrees. "And I'm not this person, either. Not yet." He squeezes Eliot's fingers and gives him a tiny smile, infuriatingly patient. "It takes time, El. We both still have some growing up to do."

Eliot scoffs, but it comes out shaky, and he can't make himself look away, either. "Time can't fix everything," he sneers. "You can't tell me this is some perfect life where nothing bad ever happens and I never fuck anything up."

"Maybe it's not," Quentin says easily, almost laughing. "But I wouldn't trade this for anything else."

It's so far from the vehement denial Eliot expected that it nearly throws him off-balance. Quentin's grip remains steady though, and his expression only grows more determined. "I know I can't, like, prove this to you right now," he says, a little quieter, "but... when you get here, you'll feel the same."

"What if I don't get here?" Eliot asks, forcing a dark laugh. "This is only a possibility, right? It's not a sure thing, it's just one way things might turn out."

"Why only one?" Quentin counters. "You're thinking about it like this is the single scenario where we end up together. Why can't there be more than that?" He steps a little closer while Eliot flounders. "I mean, you never know. Maybe this is how it goes more often than not."

It's a nice thought. Eliot feels a rising urge to just give in, agree with him and spend the rest of his time here ignoring the obvious - but he shoves it down. He has to make Quentin understand. "Okay, so maybe some versions of me get to— to marry you, and end up here," he allows. "But I won't."

Quentin frowns at him, confused and sad. "Why not?" he asks softly, brow furrowing when Eliot finally manages to drop his gaze. "Eliot, why don't you think this could be your future?"

Eliot makes himself scoff again. "You can't tell me you don't remember the odds of actually ending up with your soulmate—"

"That's not what I asked," Quentin cuts him off. He doesn't sound upset or even a little exasperated - it's like he's somehow practiced at this, at not letting Eliot deflect or shy away from him.

When Eliot risks a glance back up, Quentin's face is open and almost curious, waiting patiently for his answer. The look reminds him so strongly of the other Quentin, _his_ Quentin, that Eliot's heart clenches for a moment— and suddenly he can't think of why he wanted to hide from him at all.

"This can't be where I end up," he says, weaker than he wants to sound. "Things like this— they don't happen for me, or if they do, it doesn't last. I don't know how to… _keep_ something like this." He would drop Quentin's gaze if he could, but somehow he can't make himself look away. "There's no way I deserve it."

He winces when Quentin sighs out a breath, bracing for his disappointment, but Quentin shakes his head a second later. "Sorry, I'm just— you've said something like that before."

Eliot isn't sure if he should be surprised or not. "At least I'm consistent," he mumbles, trying to smile.

Quentin doesn't return it, the familiar glint of determination back in his eyes. "Listen," he says, turning Eliot's palm over in his grasp. "We could've found a different house. We could've moved into somewhere that didn't have any stupid carpets to deal with. But you wanted to make this place ours, and you _did_." He does smile then, just a little, folding Eliot's fingers over his own. "You do deserve it, El. Even where you are now."

Something tells Eliot he means more than just the house. He does his best to ignore the sting in his throat as he holds Quentin's gaze, barely noticing how hard he's gripping his hand.

"The Quentin you'll go back to, he's going to make sure you know it," Quentin murmurs. "And you'll do the same for him."

Eliot's heart clenches again. He can almost imagine it, like it could actually be within reach, but— "How can you be sure?" he whispers, the words almost painful.

"I told you, I know you," Quentin says, lifting his other hand to the side of Eliot's neck, thumb against his pulse. "So even if we aren't, you know, _exactly_ like this…" He tilts his head a little, his smile soft but sure. "No matter what, I know we'll still be together."

Whether from his words or from the warmth of his palm, Eliot feels a shiver spread through him. It leaves something behind, like that spark of yearning from before, like he wants to believe him - and weirdest of all, Eliot thinks maybe he really could.

He isn't sure if he actually reacts at all beyond swallowing around the ache slowly working its way up from his chest, but Quentin seems satisfied anyway, stroking across his collar for just a second before his hand slides away. Eliot keeps his hold on his other hand though, and Quentin stays close even as he ducks his head, brushing his short bangs out of his eyes like he's suddenly shy again. "Hey, um— can I show you one more thing?"

Eliot manages to nod, and lets Quentin lead him along once more, this time just a few steps further into the living room. He does his best to get some composure back as Quentin sits him down on the couch - or at least, he does after Quentin has to tug a little to remind him to let go of his hand. While Quentin moves off to pull something down from the closest bookshelf, Eliot takes a breath, and then another, the shivery feeling settling low and quiet in his chest. He even manages to get his heart rate mostly under control before Quentin sits down next to him and places a photo album in Eliot's lap.

Eliot gives him a questioning glance, but Quentin still seems a little nervous, trying unsuccessfully to tuck his bangs behind his ear again. "Go ahead, take a look," he prompts, gesturing at the cover.

"It's not a touch screen, or anything?" Eliot can't help asking, glad to find he can still sound wry if he tries. "I thought this was the future."

Quentin rolls his eyes, but his dimples make it hard to hide his smile. "Just open it."

"I should've known you'd be an ebook snob," Eliot sniffs, lifting the cover somewhat gingerly. Quentin doesn't rise to the bait, just pulls one knee up to sit almost sideways on the couch and watch Eliot turn the first page - which he does, albeit hesitantly. He's just not entirely sure what the point of this is. He was curious about the pictures on the fridge, sure, but this is bound to be spoiler territory, and yet Quentin doesn't seem to mind it so much.

The first spread of photos immediately distracts him from his trepidation, however - they're not laid out in separate sleeves like he expected, but assembled on the page like a scrapbook, with coloured borders and neatly cut-out shapes linking them together. The whole album is wrapped in a thin sheen of magic that's one half shimmering decoration and one half non-permanent sticking charm, and he's pretty sure it has more pages than it seemed to at first glance.

He actually recognizes some of the photos on the page too, namely a couple of polaroids he and Margo took on a trip to the city in their first year, one of which he's sure he last saw pinned to Margo's bedroom mirror at the Cottage. The other pictures on the opposite page must be Quentin's - a shot of him and Julia at what looks like their undergrad commencement, and another from around the same time, judging by Quentin's hair (not quite at his shoulders yet) and expression (generally uncomfortable). That photo is a little uneven on one side, like it's been cropped, and the arm around Julia's waist probably used to belong to someone. Ignoring that, it's pretty cute, even if Quentin's suit is woefully ill-fitting.

On the next page, there's a few photos of the Cottage, along with a slightly-bent playing card and the recipe for the Physical Kids' signature cocktail. The opposite side has a spread of the Cottage interior during what Eliot is pretty sure is last year's Halloween party - he wasn't exactly in his right mind for most of that night, but he does vaguely remember somebody floating an enchanted instant camera around. 

Looking at the pictures of the decorations and costumes jogs his memory, mostly about how much work he and Margo put into their matching _Grease_ ensemble - some magic, mostly hairspray - and how much convincing it took to get Quentin out of his room to join the party. Near the bottom of the page, there's a slightly-crooked photo of Quentin asleep on the cobwebby couch with Eliot's T-Birds jacket around his shoulders. Eliot wonders if the Quentin sitting beside him remembers that.

"Did you put this together?" he asks, thumbing the edge of the page.

In his periphery, Quentin shakes his head. "No, you did. You had a sort of, um, scrapbooking phase? A few years ago? And Penny got really into photography around the same time." That sounds likely enough to Eliot, even if he can't really imagine having the patience to charm all the tiny bat stickers on the page into flapping their wings. "You don't do it much anymore, except for this," Quentin goes on, nodding at the album. "And, I mean, having physical photos from things is kind of nice. "

Eliot hums in agreement as he turns to the next page. It seems to be past the point of his present now, although the shots are still from around Brakebills and, like the photos on the fridge, he still recognizes the people in them. It's still weird to look at pictures of things that haven't happened yet, but the visual timeline is also— reassuring, in a way. He can admit it's a relief to think that their entire little group does, at some point, end up sprawled on the quad together, or crammed into the background of a selfie of Kady's, or, from the look of it, getting Penny to deliver Starbucks to the middle of the campus library.

There's also the fact that, in most of these photos, he and Quentin are— well. Close. Not always touching, but usually at least within arms' reach of each other. In the one in the library, he has his arm over the back of Quentin's chair, and in another taken in the city, they're holding hands. Eliot flips the page before he can stare at it for too long.

Next, there's a photo of him and Margo posed together in an unfamiliar kitchen, then the two of them with Quentin on an unfamiliar couch. "That's at the apartment you got after graduation," Quentin explains, tapping the next photo over - Q and Margo, both with their hair tied back and a thick spellbook open between them. "I was still at the Cottage then. Eventually you convinced me to let you guys set up a portal in my closet."

"So this is after we're together," Eliot says, his mouth moving before he can think better of it. 

Quentin blinks in surprise, then smiles at him. "Yeah. And, um—" He moves his hand to the opposite page. "This is when I moved in with you guys."

The post-Brakebills haircut he mentioned earlier is on display in those photos, definitely a bit longer and floppier than his current look, and without as much scruff. It's still pretty cute, especially in the shot where Quentin is flipping off the camera. "Looks like fun," Eliot says dryly.

"We realized a bit too late that we couldn't just shove my whole bookshelf through the portal," Quentin sighs, grimacing a little. "I think we just ended up shrinking it, but we had to take everything off first, and it was just, you know, tedious. Plus, Margo told us to wait until she got home, but Jules insisted we could do it ourselves—" Sure enough, Eliot spots Julia in the next picture, seemingly mid-argument with Quentin over what looks like Ikea instructions. "It was a whole thing. So, yeah, tensions were a little high."

"Good to know Julia is still a delight to be micromanaged by," Eliot hums, trying not to sound too vindictive as he thinks of Quentin pacing in his room last term. It's not hard to imagine Julia having the same problem with Quentin moving here as she had with him being at the Cottage.

"Well, it wasn't just her," Quentin admits, curling up a little more. "It was also— I mean, it was, like, a real city apartment, not just a dorm. And I'd never moved in with someone who I was, you know." He waves a vague hand at Eliot. "Dating."

Eliot presses his lips together, fighting a grin while Quentin brushes his hair back again. He isn't exactly surprised, considering what he knows of Quentin in the present, but it's still sort of endearing to hear him say it, to think of him being _anxious_ about it. "You were nervous?"

"I was a little stressed," Quentin corrects him. Eliot can't help glancing down at the photo of his blurry middle finger and back up again. "Okay, a lot stressed. But whatever, it worked out in the end." Eliot doesn't bother trying to hide his smile at that, or when Quentin eagerly motions of him to keep going through the album.

The next few pages don't seem to be devoted to any specific events, more just an artful sort of jumble of various moments. Birthdays and vacations and random get-togethers and days out in places he doesn't recognize, some with their whole group and some with only one or two of them. Eliot can't tell how much time is passing through the photos, but it must be a few years, at least. Flipping through them, he can kind of watch everyone grow up - including himself, weird as that is.

And, of course, a lot of the photos are of just him and Quentin. Grinning at each other across a café table, bundled in scarves under some Christmas lights, holding hands while gazing around a sunlit forest. A page later, there's an almost top-down shot of the two of them in bed, Quentin asleep with his face tucked against Eliot's neck, and Eliot, holding the camera, smiling like he can't help it.

Even when he finds the beach day pictures he saw hinted at on the fridge - Alice and Kady grinning in the water; Quentin, Julia, and Margo posing in front of a sandcastle; Penny half-buried in sand - Eliot's eye is drawn to the one of Quentin sitting under their beach umbrella with a book in one hand and Eliot's head in his lap. Quentin's hair is damp and falling into his face as he grins down at Eliot, the sunlight turning his crown that honey colour that Eliot always gets caught on—

He's almost startled to find only a single photo pasted on the next page - Quentin's mouth open on what looks like a laugh, and Eliot ducked in close, clearly having ruined the shot by nuzzling his cheek.

"Oh," Quentin snickers beside him. "I forgot you put this one in here, instead of the— there's another version that we actually, like, sent to people."

Eliot glances up at him with his eyebrows raised. "Why, what's this from?"

"You'll see," Quentin says easily. He shifts a little closer like he wants a better view himself, warm against Eliot's side. "Keep going. This is the part I really wanted to show you."

He sounds excited enough that Eliot is only a little bit wary of turning the page. As he lifts the corner, he belatedly registers their clasped hands in the laughing photo, and the matching rings on their fingers - but the next page is already falling open before he can do much more than furrow his brow, and the breath Eliot tries to take catches in his throat.

First there's Quentin, looking more nervous than he has any right to in a suit that fits him like this one does, a soft grey with a vest underneath and a pale flower pinned to his lapel. His hair is tied back but he's not looking at the camera, clutching a jumble of cue cards in one hand and fiddling with his bowtie with the other. Beside that is a photo of Eliot, also in a three piece, dark green with coattails and a patterned silver waistcoat with a chain. He's sitting on the end of a cushy hotel bed with Margo, and looks about as concerned as Quentin does, if not moreso. He also appears to have a deathgrip on Margo's hand, but she's taking it in stride.

The final photo on the page is of the two of them standing together, paying absolutely no attention to whoever is behind the camera in favour of staring at each other, awed and giddy with their fingers frozen mid-twine. Side by side, Eliot can see how they're coordinated, how his jacket is the same colour as Quentin's tie, and their matching boutonnières—

These are wedding photos, he realizes, _their_ wedding photos— and maybe he shouldn't be surprised by the snapshot of Penny, Kady, and Alice grinning in front of a welcome placard with directions for _Party du Coldwater-Waugh_ , but the sight still makes his pulse speed up.

"You sure I'm allowed to look at these?" he asks, forcing a laugh. Part of him kind of hopes Quentin will say no, but he's also not certain he could close the album now if he tried.

Instead, Quentin shrugs playfully. "I won't tell if you don't," he says, then smiles fondly down at the page. "We have, like, an actual wedding album too. We hired a professional and everything, and did this whole shoot uptown, but... I think I like these ones better."

Eliot nods, unsure if he's grateful or annoyed that the nicer photos are somewhere else. "Who took them?"

"Penny, mostly. He brought his camera to the ceremony."

Somehow it takes his saying the actual word for Eliot to realize what he's looking at in the next set of photos, but yeah, that sure is an aisle he's walking down, arm in arm with Margo. Quentin and Julia come next, and then all four of them in front of what must be the wedding arch, a floating circle of gold framing him and Quentin in. Then they're holding hands while Margo speaks - apparently officiating, not that Eliot is surprised - and then they're exchanging rings, the silver ones they're both wearing now.

There's Quentin, holding Eliot's fingers against his palm while his other hand hovers over the ring - he's casting something, the camera just catching the glint of magic on metal. Eliot runs his thumb across the etching on his ring and wonders if this is how it got there, if Quentin put it there himself in this moment, and if that means the pattern on Quentin's ring is his own doing as well. 

He's expecting a photo of the kiss right afterwards, practically bracing for it, but there isn't one. Instead, there's something taken what seems like only a few seconds later, both of them teary-eyed with their foreheads pressed together, Eliot's hand cupping Quentin's jaw, with confetti frozen in the air around them. Eliot doesn't realize how long he's been paused there staring at it until Quentin touches his hand. "What is it?"

Eliot takes a breath through his nose, dragging his eyes away and trying to smile. "Nothing, I'm just—" Well. Overwhelmed feels like a bit of an understatement. He takes another breath and laughs it out. "I just look... really happy."

Admittedly, he's not sure what he expected from his own goddamn wedding, but somehow it still seems weird, almost risky to think about for too long. Quentin doesn't say anything though, just waits for Eliot to turn the page - which he does, after a few more seconds.

The rest are pictures from the reception, where Eliot can see a bit more of their chosen venue - white-draped tables with golden chairs, thick wooden beams across a transparent ceiling, strings of flowers and warm floating lights. There's a closeup of their delightfully gay cake topper, then Margo with a microphone and a smirk, making Eliot and their crowd of guests laugh while Quentin hides his face against Eliot's neck. Julia also seems to have made a speech, but it looks a little more teary than Margo's, and the shot after that is her and Quentin hugging tightly.

On the opposite page, Quentin still looks a little watery, but then so does Eliot in the next photo, even as he's gently brushing Quentin's tears away. In the shot where the floor is cleared for what must be their first dance, they're both definitely crying, but they're smiling too, pressed together, almost nose to nose.

"Margo took these ones," Quentin says with a soft laugh, brushing his thumb across Eliot's hand. "You were so mad she got so many of you crying. There was one she took where you're, like, two seconds from hexing the camera out of her hands. I think it was Penny's phone background for about a year."

Eliot snorts at that, but the gentle touch reminds him where he is, and he manages to swallow the weird emotion climbing up his throat as he turns the page.

In the next spread it seems the bar opened, and everyone got a bit loosened up. There's Kady and Julia sipping cocktails with the dancing crowd of guests as their backdrop, Margo brandishing her high heels at the camera with a glare, Penny bullying his way into the DJ booth - and Quentin and Alice laughing together, which Eliot decidedly does not feel weird about. He's soothed by the shot of Margo kissing Quentin's cheek, anyway, and the following one of Kady and Alice mimicking the pose.

Next to those, though, Eliot is surprised by an off-kilter and somewhat sneaky shot of himself and Julia, hugging about as tightly as she and Quentin did before. He isn't sure how to feel about that one, but he doesn't linger long, moving on before Quentin can think he's hesitating again.

Besides, the next spread is entirely strips from a photobooth, and Eliot realizes with a start that the set on the fridge must have been from this night too, judging by the outfits and how drunk everyone seems to be. The seven of them apparently monopolized the booth in twos and threes first before cramming everyone in together. Eliot takes a moment to smile at one strip that's just him, Margo, and Quentin, making faces and laughing all the way down.

The last page from the wedding is, unexpectedly, just one photo again. It looks like it was taken late in the night, where Quentin's hair is down and his own tie is undone. They've abandoned their jackets too, and the rest of the floor is empty. It looks like a movie still, just two of them with the floating lights - maybe dancing, or else just standing pressed together. They look tired and happy, and Quentin's face is tilted up for a kiss.

It's such an abrupt change from the previous spread, so intimate that Eliot almost feels like he's intruding. He itches to turn the page, to get away from it, but his fingers are slow to comply, like some part of him needs to stare for a little longer. Before he can really force the issue either way, Quentin's hand slides off of his to touch the very edge of the photo, and when Eliot glances at him, he's smiling down at it fondly.

"You know, it's one thing for me to just... tell you stuff," he says quietly, "but I wanted you to see some of it yourself." Eliot forgets to look away before Quentin glances up to meet his gaze, and he ends up just staring back, held in place by having that soft smile turned on him.

"All of this," Quentin says, laying his palm over the seam of the album. "It's like— it's a storyline, from where you are now all the way to here. And these are just pictures, El. You get to actually live it."

Eliot swallows hard. It's strange that Quentin can talk about it like that, like all of the photos are things he can look forward to. That certainty still feels so out of reach to Eliot, but Quentin makes it sound all the closer somehow, like he really could just— hold his hand out to it, if he wanted to. But could he actually grasp it?

"You're still at the very beginning," Quentin tells him, searching his face, seeing right through his doubt. "But you'll find your way here. We both will, and everyone else. And when you do, even if you feel like you're still just starting… you'll have all of these things to look back on." He taps the page lightly, then rests his hand on Eliot's again. "And you'll still be you."

Eliot looks back for a second longer, letting the words fully settle between them before he forces himself to drop Quentin's gaze. He keeps getting dangerously close to doing something stupid, like agreeing with him. He clears his throat and looks back down at the album instead, still open in his lap. "Well," he huffs, trying for playful, "the metaphor kind of falls apart a little if we're running out of pages, doesn't it?"

"It's magic," Quentin says, a little wry as he takes his hand back to curl up again. "There's always more pages."

He's right, of course, and past the final wedding photo is a spread with pictures of their current house - the two of them on the front steps of the brownstone, brandishing keys, then Quentin smiling by the bay window, and Eliot sprawled on the floor in the empty living room. Eliot manages a smile at the one of Quentin sitting on the kitchen counter, pouting as he's gestured at by Eliot's spatula. The others return on the opposite page - Margo blowing a kiss to the camera over a half-packed suitcase, Penny and Alice frowning at each other beside the Brakebills sign, a gathering at what must be Kady's Hedge penthouse - and then on the next, an unexpected splash of bright colours, crowds, and a telling amount of rainbow flags.

"We all went to Pride?" Eliot asks, pleased as he looks over several shots of them grinning together on the sunny street. There's Quentin and Margo in matching _BI BITCH_ shirts, and himself in pink shorts with a less-than-tasteful amount of his shirt unbuttoned. Even Alice is there, without her glasses, but looking about as prim as she usually does - except for the bob she's cut her hair into, and honestly, that tells Eliot enough.

"We were all in town at the right time, for once," Quentin explains with a laugh. "It wasn't that long ago, actually. I hadn't been since I was, like, a barely-out teenager." Eliot glances up to watch him grin as he pushes his hair out of his eyes. "It was fun. We saw the parade, then we all got day-drunk and went home to nap at 3 PM instead of staying out late. Scandalous, I know."

Eliot snorts and moves to the next spread, where Margo is grinning with her arm around Alice's waist. Beside that, there's Penny sipping starbucks in a bi flag crop top, then Quentin kissing the smudged rainbow painted on Eliot's cheek, and Kady holding the leash of a massive dog surrounded by cooing drag queens. Eliot is pretty sure it's the same dog from the card on the fridge, without a holiday sweater this time, but definitely the same size. "Who's this?" 

"Oh, that's Asmodeus," Quentin says, suddenly more excited. "He's a rescue, or Kady's private security, if anyone asks. Honestly, it's true enough. That dog could kick my ass."

Eliot doesn't doubt it - Asmodeus could probably put his paws on Quentin's shoulders, if not his own. He can't imagine a better match for Kady. "We dogsit him sometimes, when she's out of town for Hedge stuff," Quentin goes on, then grins again. "Actually, thanks to him, we've been thinking about getting a dog."

"Oh?" Eliot snickers as he turns the page, half-expecting to see a full spread of puppy pictures. Instead it's a page in soft pastels, contrasting so sharply with the Pride photos that it throws him a little, and that's before he realizes what's actually pictured.

On one side is Julia, holding her very pregnant belly at what must be a baby shower, the table beside her laden with gifts and balloons and teddy bears. On the other side is Julia propped up in bed in a hospital gown, smiling down at the tiny bundle in her arms. Eliot stares at the photo for a few seconds, trying to make the pieces come together in his mind before he gives up and looks at Quentin for answers. Quentin seems to bring his eyes up from the page at the same time, a fond little smile curving his lips. "What?"

"Julia had a baby?" Eliot blurts. " _Your_ Julia?"

Quentin nods, amused now, but his gaze is still soft. "Her name is Hope. She was born in May."

Eliot looks back down, trying and mostly failing to imagine the Julia he knows right now as a mom. He has the proof right in front of him though, indisputable, and she looks so happy that it's almost hard to drag his eyes away. There are photos of the rest of them meeting the baby too, crowded around the bed, and more than one of just Julia and Quentin grinning down at the little bundle together. 

"Who's the baby daddy?" Eliot manages to ask, lingering on one shot where Penny looks dangerously close to tears.

"She used a donor," Quentin explains, half-shrugging. "It's just her and Hope, and all us aunts and uncles helping out, obviously." He pauses. "We're the godparents, though. Like, legally or whatever."

"We?" Eliot repeats, glancing up at him to check. "Like, both of us?"

Quentin gives him a patient smile, then reaches out to touch the photo in the corner closest to him. "Yes, El, both of us."

When his hand slides away, Eliot is surprised to see it's a picture of himself. It's not crowded with their cooing friends like the other photos, just him with the tiny baby in his arms, looking down at her with something like awe.

"We've been thinking about this, too," Quentin says softly.

"What, babies?" Eliot asks distractedly, running his finger over the edge of the photo.

"Yeah. Having a baby."

Eliot pauses, blinking a few times, then looks up at Quentin again as his words sink in. His first instinct is to laugh, the idea is so bewildering - but his lungs clench instead, and he can't take a breath. He thinks of Quentin's stress response haircut, the _hypothetical thing_ he and the other Eliot have been talking about, the extra room down the hall.

"I—" His heart suddenly hammering, he looks back at the photo of himself with Julia's baby, trying to let the idea settle, but he can still barely turn it over. "I don't…"

"It's okay," Quentin says, and Eliot lets his gaze be drawn back over to him, helplessly. He looks a little hesitant now, his gaze careful, but he's still smiling, the same look he gave Eliot when he said _Trust me, okay?_ He puts his hand over Eliot's on the photo, curling their fingers together. "You don't have to get it right now. When you're here, you'll see."

Eliot nods weakly, letting the touch ground him, and focuses on making his throat work again. Quentin gives him a few seconds, then unfolds himself a little and slips the album out of Eliot's slack grip, closing it with his free hand.

"Let me go get you a drink," he murmurs, stroking across Eliot's knuckles before letting go and standing up from the couch with a smile. "Maybe coffee? For real, this time?"

"Sure," Eliot manages, watching him replace the album on its shelf. Part of him wants to stand up and follow him, but he's not actually sure he trusts his knees to keep him upright at the moment. Still, as Quentin heads back toward the French doors to the kitchen, Eliot takes a breath. "Q."

Quentin pauses to glance back at him, halfway through pushing his bangs out of his eyes again, his eyebrows raised in soft concern. Eliot feels something in his chest loosen. "Thanks."

He's not sure at first if Quentin will understand, if he'll know that Eliot means it for more than just the coffee, more than just sitting with him for so long - but as Quentin lets his hand drop and a smile returns to his face, Eliot wonders how he ever thought he wouldn't. "Let's see if I can figure out your coffeemaker first," Quentin says wryly, still dimpling as he disappears into the other room.

Eliot eventually drags his eyes from the empty doorway, spreads his palms on his knees and breathes out. As he tips his head back against the couch, he lets his gaze wander around the room again, from the front door to the hall with the bedrooms and the staircase, all the way over past the clock and the bookshelves to the sunlight draped across the wall.

Despite all the personal touches, all the pieces of himself and things that are almost familiar, he still doesn't quite fit here - but the thought doesn't send the same spike of discomfort through him as it did earlier. The idea that he _could_ is still hard to believe, but Quentin said he learns by doing, by living it. By going back to the present and somehow not fucking it up. This whole situation still has a decidedly less-than-possible shine to it, but… well, he manages to get it right at least once, doesn't he? So maybe that's reason enough to try.

And some part of him is actually _excited_ about going back, as weird as that is to realize. It's not even about proving himself right anymore, eventual vindication, or any of that, it's just— the chance to see for himself. That could be within reach, even if nothing else is, just yet.

Besides, even without thinking of his potential future, wherever he ends up or doesn't— he misses his friends. Margo especially, and maybe Quentin most of all - not the one here, but _his_ Quentin, the one who's back at the Cottage, at _home_ , waiting for him. Eliot's entire body seems to ache at the thought, his ribcage tightening, and the room almost sways a little— 

Actually, he's not so sure that last one is related. As a wave of vertigo falls over him, Eliot wonders if he somehow triggered his imminent snap back to the present just by thinking about it - but it's not quite as abrupt a loss of balance as he felt when he was casting the spell, and it fades after a few seconds. Either way, he's definitely been here a lot longer than the few minutes he thought he'd have before the spell wore off, so maybe he shouldn't be surprised that now is apparently go time.

The thought of disappearing while Quentin isn't looking fills him with inexplicable panic though, and he pitches forward, half-planning on standing up after all, before another wave of dizziness makes his stomach flip. "Q," he calls weakly, squeezing his eyes shut against the lightheadedness. "Quentin?"

He hears immediate hurried footsteps, and feels fingers against his cheek only a few seconds later, warm and grounding. "What happened?" Quentin asks, wide-eyed with worry when Eliot manages to peek out at him. "Hey, you're still here, okay? You're with me."

Eliot lifts his hand to grasp Quentin's wrist, but when the floor stops swaying he sort of forgets what he was going to do with it. "I think the spell is wearing off," he pants. "It felt like falling when I cast it, and now it's— I don't know, more drawn out, or something."

Quentin frowns, brow furrowing as he quickly looks Eliot up and down. "Um, okay, I don't know what it's really supposed to— is it just going to, like, beam you back?"

"I have no idea," Eliot admits. Sunderland really should've gone over this. "It's a bit better now, but I don't think I have long."

"Don't make it sound so ominous," Quentin huffs, still frowning. "Here, lie down." He helps Eliot slowly tip over to lie across the couch, his head pillowed on his arm. His other hand is still latched onto Quentin's wrist, but by the time he realizes he should probably let go, Quentin is already scooting close to sit on the floor beside him, knees curled up.

Another bout of vertigo makes Eliot close his eyes again, and when it passes a few moments later, he opens them to find Quentin with his cheek pressed against the soft edge of the couch, watching him carefully. "Are you alright?" he asks quietly.

Eliot nods, still a little dizzy, but at least he can't fall over if he's already horizontal. He does try to release his grip on Quentin then, but Quentin just slides their fingers together instead, resting their joined hands on the edge of the cushion. His silver ring catches Eliot's eye, and for a moment he just lets himself look - maybe it's the imminent time travel, but it feels easier now. Even when he lifts his gaze to meet Quentin's again, it's not so hard to hold.

Will he know when he's about to be sent back, or will the spell just end with no ceremony? Does he still have a few minutes, or just a few seconds? Does he have time to say goodbye? Would that be weird? It'd probably weirder to not say anything, right?

"So," he starts, trying to smile instead of just squinting at him through the vague dizziness. "This probably isn't the way you thought your morning would go."

"Yeah, the time travel was a bit of a surprise," Quentin says wryly, then shrugs. "But, I mean, I would've been spending the day with you either way."

Eliot isn't quite sure about his math on that one, but he doesn't bother trying to argue about it. "Do you miss him?" he asks instead, before he's really thought it through. "The other me, your Eliot?"

"Sort of," Quentin hums. He reaches up with his free hand to brush a curl away from Eliot's eyes. "You're more like him than you think."

The soft touch grounds him a little more, clearing enough of a space in Eliot's mind for him to really consider the words - or try to, at least. He mostly ends up just staring back at Quentin, watching his dimples appear and thinking about how different it is to be under that gaze here - different, but also more familiar than anything else.

Quentin huffs a laugh after a few seconds, ducking his head almost shyly. "Can I be honest?" he asks, only a little muffled by both the upholstery and the grin he's fighting. "I, um. I keep wanting to kiss you. It's like a reflex, or something, I guess, but— it probably wouldn't be fair. To past me, I mean," he clarifies, when Eliot can only blink at him, reeling perhaps more fully than he has since he arrived. "I'd be, like, stealing his first kiss with you."

God, Eliot didn't even consider _that_ part of going back to the present - how many firsts he and Quentin haven't gotten to yet, how many of those moments he's only seen in photos.

"When does that happen?" he asks, knowing already that Quentin isn't going to give him an answer, but the playful glare he gets for his trouble is nice, too.

"Soon," Quentin assures him, squeezing his fingers. "And I know I'm biased, but... I think it's worth waiting for."

"But when I go back, I won't know," Eliot says quietly, his throat stinging the more he thinks about it. "I won't know it's you. I won't remember— any of this."

"That doesn't change anything," Quentin says softly. "I'll still be waiting for you. Back then and right here."

He sits up a little and leans in close, and for a moment Eliot thinks he really is going to kiss him - but Quentin's lips brush his cheek instead. Eliot still feels the warm press of it through his whole body, followed by another wave of floaty dizziness when Quentin pulls back. He gets one more glimpse of Quentin's smile before he has to close his eyes again to stop his head from spinning.

Maybe Q is right, he thinks, the precarious thought shaken loose by vertigo. Not just about the spell or the present, but about everything. Growing up. Being together. Deserving it, maybe. 

There's a shutter in Eliot's mind that tries to close on that, to shove it away where it can't come back to hurt him - but part of him wants to ease it open instead, to take a longer look. He's not going to remember any of this anyway, least of all the weird, shaky hopefulness trying to seep into him. Maybe that's all the more reason to lean into it, just for a second. Just until the dizziness fades, and then he'll put it away.

The vertigo only rises though, to the point where he thinks the room might actually be tilting. He tightens his grip on Quentin's hand just in case, just to make sure he doesn't fall—

Then his balance returns, abrupt like snapping out of a doze, and Eliot drops his hands from the spell form to catch himself against the closest desk.

For a split second he's not sure where he is, but it clicks into place easily, and then he can't think of where else he expected to be. Around the classroom, everyone else is slowly lowering their hands as well, and Sunderland is nodding like she's unsurprised by the results - or lack thereof, considering all the confused glances being exchanged. No one else seems anywhere near as unsteady as Eliot.

His heart is still pounding, so the casting seems to have only lasted a second. He can't remember what it felt like, though, or if anything really happened - but no, something must have, right? If nothing else, he can still feel the phantom sparks of the magic between his fingers, just barely there.

Beside him, Margo shakes her hands out and gives Eliot the beginning of a wry look, but it shifts into concern as she takes in his posture. He quickly pushes off the desk before anyone else can notice, straightening his vest and fixing his expression into the same vague boredom some of his classmates have affected as Sunderland addresses the room once more. He can feel the suspicious looks Margo keeps shooting at him, but he keeps his eyes ahead and focuses on pulling himself together, smoothing out the wrinkles, covering the exposed seams.

It takes a bit more effort to actually process the words floating around the room - Sunderland is reminding a few disappointed-looking classmates about soulmate statistics and the astronomically low likelihood of Innerste Augury actually working. But when they all cast it, Eliot felt something, didn't he? Does that mean it worked? That he has a soulmate, somehow? The thought feels as impossible as it did earlier - and yet he's certain he went _somewhere_ during that split second of casting, even if he can't remember where, or with whom. It's already slipped away, like a dream, the throughline too faded to lead anywhere. There are some vague impressions pressing at him, but he can't grasp any of them right now, only the overall feeling that he's forgotten something important.

Eliot does his best to listen to the rest of the debrief, but he can barely focus enough to remember to gather up his notebook when they're dismissed. It's a quiet walk back to the Cottage, and Margo doesn't press him for details, which he's grateful for, even though he's sure she will later. When they get inside, he wants more than anything to just go up to his room and lie down, just take a few minutes to really get himself fully under control - but then Quentin looks up from the closest couch, and it's such an inexplicable relief to see him that Eliot almost forgets all about the casting.

Quentin, however, clearly hasn't. The common room is mostly empty already, but he waits politely until Margo shoos a group of first years upstairs before he all but throws his book down and asks how it went.

"For me?" Margo asks, making a face. "As expected, a waste of time. For Eliot, though…" She shoots him a mischievous look as she takes a seat on the arm of the couch, leaning conspiratorially close to Quentin. "I don't know for sure, but that broodiness is usually indicative of having been proved wrong."

"I'm not brooding," Eliot grumbles, which proves her point, but still.

Quentin lights up with excitement though, turning to him with a grin. "So it worked? Wow, um, congratulations, I guess."

Eliot swallows the urge to scoff. "Thank you, Q," he says instead, giving Margo a mostly-heatless glare. "I'm glad _someone_ appreciates the finesse required to make a clean getaway without an interrogation from Sutherland."

"Oh, like hell," Margo laughs, but beside her, Quentin looks genuinely confused.

"No, I mean for— you know, beating the odds," he says, gesturing vaguely. "Since you really do have a soulmate. The spell is proof, right?"

Hearing the s-word makes Eliot's stomach twist almost reflexively. It still doesn't feel like it should be possible, not in relation to him - but he also knows his casting was perfect, so Quentin has a point. What other explanation could there be? "Well, I suppose there is a certain grandeur about it," he sighs loftily, waving a hand. "Maybe I should have known. Exclusivity suits me."

Quentin frowns a little deeper. Margo rolls her eyes. "If you're gonna let it go to your head, I'm gonna need a drink," she announces, standing up to smooth out her skirt. "And I'm not making it myself, so you'd better get over it quick."

"I can multitask," Eliot assures her. He moves to join her as she heads for the bar around the corner, glancing back to make sure Quentin is following - which he is, though his brow is still furrowed when he edges around the coffee table. Eliot hangs back to let him catch up, meaning to ask what the Hobbit got up to while they were gone, but Quentin speaks first.

"Hey, um," he starts, half-mumbling, "I know it's not really— it's not my business, and I know you said everyone forgets after the spell, anyway, but—" He glances up at Eliot as he pushes his bangs behind his ear, a sheepishly hopeful look on his face. "Do you remember anything?"

In hindsight, Eliot probably should've expected this. He could just say no - he probably _should_ say no, if only just to keep Quentin's optimism at a more realistic level. But he can tell Quentin is actively trying to reign in his excitement to ask him this, to not be pushy even though he must be dying to know. He looks so eager, so sincere in his curiosity, and unsurprisingly, it's as endearing as it always is.

Eliot lets out a breath and, for the first time, lets himself actually think about it, sorting through the impressions closest to the surface while Quentin blinks up at him, waiting patiently for his answer.

"I remember I was barefoot," he says eventually, watching Quentin's lips twitch into a smile. "The floor was warm, sun on hardwood. There was a hallway, and stairs... a lot of doors, but I don't know if I looked inside, I just remember walking through, and then… lying down, I think."

And feeling safe, somehow. That might be the clearest thing he remembers. But Eliot doesn't think he could say that out loud, even to Quentin. 

He shakes his head and puts on a smile instead. "The rest is all hazy. And on a semi-related note, I believe you promised me a taste-testing." He takes Quentin's arm to herd him around the corner, ignoring his sudden pout and delivering him to his and Margo's spectator seats beside the bar. The look doesn't last long anyway, not once Margo distracts him with questions about his date with Tolkien, and Eliot lets himself unwind as he takes up his position across the counter.

He puts the spell and the weird blurry memories and everything else out of his mind, focusing on the gentle tug of magic it takes to procure three glasses. By the time he's poured and mixed and is adding garnish, he doesn't even have to fake a grin when he notices Quentin watching his hands.

From there, it's almost like any other late afternoon the three of them have spent together, with the added bonus of alcohol. Quentin's earnest attempts to give dutiful feedback on Eliot's cocktails-in-progress are a nice perk, and after the first one, he doesn't even seem to mind when Margo and Eliot can't hide their laughter anymore.

They eventually migrate back to the common room couch, Margo curling up in one corner to sip her French 75 while Eliot settles in the other, his whiskey tumbler already empty. He drapes his arm across the back of the couch, bracketing Quentin's shoulders when he flops down between them, warm and relaxed - fulfilling his taste-tester duties has definitely loosened him up, just as Eliot hoped it would. He's got a pretty solid idea for Q's signature drink now, but he also doesn't think it'd hurt to have a couple more nights like this, just to be sure.

He's content to just sit and bask for a while, letting the details of Quentin and Margo's nerdy bickering fly blissfully over his head, but he tunes back in when Quentin makes a wild gesture with his half-empty cocktail - only Eliot lifting his fingers keeps the contents from tipping out all over the couch.

"Oh my god, you're totally blitzed already," Margo laughs as Quentin sheepishly lowers his glass, cradled in both hands. "You're such a lightweight."

"I've had more than you," Quentin insists with a pout. "And I haven't eaten today, so it's, you know, hitting me fast, or whatever."

"Uh-huh," Margo teases, giving him a sly look. "You sure you didn't start without us?"

Quentin rolls his eyes. "Yeah, right. Even without the warded cabinet, I know you guys probably have, like, spidey-senses that go off if anyone touches the bar."

Eliot blinks as a vague sense of déjà vu washes over him. Something about the way Quentin said it, an association on the tip of the tongue that he can already feel slipping away…

He must make some sort of face, because Quentin gives him a slightly concerned look that quickly morphs into annoyance. "Oh no, don't even _try_ to tell me you don't know who Spider-man is, you dick," he huffs. "That's literally impossible. Even without the comics, there's been a new movie every two years since, like, 2002."

The weird almost-there feeling flits away just as quickly as it came on, but Eliot is still saved from answering when Margo snickers. "He's fucking with you," she assures Quentin, patting his arm. "He scoured Andrew Garfield's IMDB after he was in _Angels in America_."

She doesn't need to make it sound quite so accusatory, in Eliot's opinion, as if she's any more immune to twinks in spandex than he is, but it gets Quentin to refocus, at least. "You know the thing about him and Michael B Jordan, right?" he says, sounding almost hilariously grim, and that sets him and Margo off into another rant, a cooperative one this time.

Eliot doesn't even try to follow along, just watches Quentin's face while he laments the cancellation of _Spiderman 5_ , or whatever. He's cute when he's fired up, Eliot muses, and moves his hand from the back of the couch to brush Quentin's hair out of his eyes.

He only realizes what he's done when Quentin breaks off mid-sentence, and as their gazes meet Eliot panics - or he expects to, at least. Strangely enough, he finds there's a question waiting on his tongue, practically falling out of his mouth as soon as he notices it. "Would you ever cut your hair, do you think?"

"Uh," Quentin says, blinking in surprise and confusion. "Maybe? I don't know, why?"

Honestly, Eliot isn't sure what made him ask. It came out of nowhere the same way the weird déjà vu did. "Don't worry, we're not planning anything," Margo soothes, reaching out to flick at Quentin's bangs herself, and grinning when he bats her hand away with a pout. "We wouldn't dare, not when you're so adorable like this. Right, El?"

"Right," Eliot agrees without thinking. He notices then that he's still touching Quentin's hair and quickly drops his hand, resting his arm as casually as he can manage along the back of the couch again. Christ, maybe he really should have gone up to bed, if he's still this unbalanced. Or maybe he should actually focus on whatever topic Margo has moved onto this time, instead of zoning out. Either way, this is probably a sign he needs another drink.

But just as he's about to lever himself to his feet and remedy the situation, Quentin shifts against his side, leaning into him just a little. He's still listening intently to Margo, not even looking at Eliot, like he's not even aware he moved— but he's also _warm_ , and it's almost harder for Eliot not to relax back into his seat. This close, he can see there's a faint pink flush staining Quentin's cheeks - it's probably just from the alcohol, but Eliot finds it hard to tear his gaze away regardless.

He'll get up in a minute, he decides. He really could use that drink, and he might even come up with one more for Quentin to try before they need to figure out dinner. For the moment, though, he lets his fingers brush Quentin's shoulder, warm through his shirt, and smiles when he feels Quentin settle against him, pressing just a little closer.

— — — — —

— — —

—

By the time Eliot wakes up, Quentin still hasn't made coffee.

He'd stayed on the floor by the couch for a while, waiting for Eliot to open his eyes again, but once his grip on Quentin's fingers loosened it became clear that he had fallen asleep. Apparently, whatever consciousness-swapping Innerste Augury orchestrated took some time to reset - which was fine, except for how it left Quentin holding a bit more anxiety than he thought was fair.

In the spell's defense though, Eliot had been asleep in bed when it took hold, so maybe it had put him back in that state once it ended. Quentin could've just woken him up to make sure, but watching Eliot sleep peacefully was pretty soothing too. And then his knees had started aching, and he had to stand before he ended up pulling something.

He'd left Eliot to nap for a bit longer while he returned to the kitchen and to the half-full coffee filter he'd abandoned, musing that he probably should've asked for help while Eliot was still awake. Usually he can persuade the fancy coffeemaker to produce black coffee easily enough, but he doesn't dare touch at least half the buttons and still has no idea what the pressure gauge is for. Comparatively, he was sure that even Eliot's past self probably would've had an easier time figuring it out. Artisanal coffee seems like something he would just know about inherently, no matter his age.

There were clearly a lot of things he was less familiar with, though. Spending time with that clear portrait of Eliot a decade younger, still at Brakebills and barely a few months into knowing most of his friends, Quentin realized he'd forgotten just how much of himself Eliot used to hide. It had been like talking to a memory, like hearing a language Quentin hadn't spoken himself in years. It was bittersweet, watching Eliot play-act like he used to while knowing how he would grow out of it, seeing him clam up at things he can breathe through now.

Even showing him how things change, all that's yet to come, and then watching him try so hard to take it in and _believe_ it— it brought up a bright flare of protectiveness in Quentin, not exactly unexpected but hard to quell all the same. More than once, he almost wished the spell _would_ let Eliot remember something, consequent time loops be damned, just so he could have a little certainty that everything would turn out okay.

But of course, Quentin had also seen enough sci-fi to know that it wasn't worth fucking with. The important thing was that Eliot would still always get himself here, even if, ten-ish years ago, he didn't think he would. Someone had to end up asleep on the couch in the next room, after all.

It's around then that he hears the soft shuffling from beyond the French doors and realizes just how long he's been standing at the counter staring into space with an empty mug in his hands, but it's the soft and somewhat groggy "Q?" called out that gets him to put it down and leave the coffeemaker behind once again.

Eliot is sitting up when he peeks back into the living room, squinting confusedly at the couch, and then at Quentin as he pauses in the doorway. For a split second, the puzzlement on his face sends another trill of worry through Quentin's chest - but then Eliot smiles, soft and affectionate, and it's all washed away by relief.

"There you are," Eliot says warmly, reaching out to him. Quentin lets himself be drawn closer, already feeling a smile tugging at his mouth. "I could've sworn we made it to bed last night, but when I tried to roll over I nearly faceplanted into the rug for my trouble." He slides their fingers together and looks up at Quentin with a playful frown. "Have I started sleepwalking?"

Quentin tries not to laugh. "Something like that."

Eliot pulls a distasteful expression, but drops it a second later to rub his eyes with his free hand. "I hope I didn't wake you."

"You're fine, I've been up for a while."

Humming, Eliot tugs on Quentin's hand until he leans down so he can kiss him, soft and lingering. "Everything okay?" he murmurs when he pulls back. "You look tired."

"Yeah," Quentin sighs, forcing the last of his anxiety out with it. "I just... I had a weird morning."

"Maybe we should both go back to bed," Eliot suggests, waggling his eyebrows until Quentin cracks a smile. He pulls on his hand again, coaxing him even closer, drawing Quentin down to sit beside him. "What happened?"

Quentin hesitates for a moment, unsure if he should really lay out the whole time travel thing right now, when Eliot has only been awake for a couple minutes and he himself hasn't fully sorted through it - but on the other hand, he's kind of dying to tell someone about it. And isn't Eliot arguably the only other person who will understand?

"Well, this is going to sound— weird," Quentin says haltingly, peeking at him. "But, I— I think you already know."

Eliot's brows draw together, uncomprehending. "Was there some sleeptalking that I missed, as well?"

"Not exactly. Um." Quentin runs a hand through his hair and sighs. "You know that spell about— soulmates, the one that, like, astral-projects you into the future? The one you hated?"

"Oh, with the built-in memory wipe," Eliot says wryly. "Sure, Sunderland's favourite."

Quentin nods, watching him carefully. "Do you remember where it took you, when you cast it?"

Eliot starts to frown at him. "You know I don't—" he starts to say, then cuts himself off, blinking at Quentin for a long second. "I... what the fuck?"

"When you get to the point you reached during the spell, you get your memories back," Quentin tells him, excitement flaring in chest. "That was the rumour, anyway. So, um, do you—"

"Yeah, I remember," Eliot says, still blinking dazedly. "It's, uh, a little hazy, but it's all there. You showed me the house, and the scrapbook album, and you told me we were married, and I… fucking choked?" He grimaces while Quentin snorts a laugh. "Jesus, did you seriously just have to deal with that? Just now?"

"It was fine," Quentin assures him, taking his hand again and squeezing soothingly. "Kind of nice, actually. You know, reminiscing, or whatever." He pauses. "But yeah, you had no idea what you were doing."

He grins when Eliot pulls another frown. "I think I should owe you an apology on my past self's behalf," he groans, tipping his head back against the couch to huff at the ceiling. "He was— _I_ was a mess. And not in the hot way."

"Well, it's not like I hadn't met him before," Quentin points out. "And, I mean... I knew he'd be okay in the long run, so. That made it easier."

Eliot smiles at that, and turns his head to look at Quentin, his gaze soft. "I was terrified the whole time," he says quietly. "It seemed too good to be true. But you were— you felt... safe."

Quentin looks down to watch Eliot's thumb stroke across his knuckles, feeling the warmth all the way up his arm. "I just wanted him to know that he was loved," he says, almost absently, then glances up. "That he _is_ loved, then and now. Even if I knew you wouldn't remember any of it."

"I remembered enough," Eliot murmurs, and leans across the gap to kiss him again. Quentin closes his eyes, sighing into it, going along pliantly when Eliot snakes an arm around his waist to pull him bodily into his lap.

It takes some manoeuvering to get his legs out of the way, but once he's settled sideways with his knees over Eliot's thigh, Quentin can curl up comfortably against Eliot's chest with his head tipped up to catch his mouth. Eliot keeps one hand on Quentin's hip and lets the other slowly trail across the back of his neck, then down his arm until he reaches his hand again. While he entwines their fingers, he breaks the kiss to knock his temple against Quentin's.

"So," he says, humming into his hair. "Soulmates, huh?"

"Yeah," Quentin says, a little breathless, not just from Eliot's mouth on his, but from hearing him say the word out loud. Past Eliot didn't seem very enthusiastic about the idea - which isn't especially fair to think about now, but still, Quentin can't help the sudden fluttery worry that takes up in his chest. "What do you think?"

"Well, it's nice to know, obviously," Eliot says, huffing a quiet laugh. "I mean, I figured if it was anyone, it was you, but—"

"Wait, really?" Quentin pulls away to look at him properly, blinking in surprise. "You thought that?"

Clearly fighting a grin, Eliot nods. "I hoped it was, anyway. I can't imagine it being anyone else." He squeezes Quentin's fingers and ducks his head just a little, smiling down at their joined hands. "I never really could."

"Me neither," Quentin admits. He's not sure how he didn't notice how easily his heartbeat overtakes the fluttering. "It feels right."

He settles against Eliot's chest again, and Eliot rests his cheek on his head, his breath soft through Quentin's hair. Curling up a little further, Quentin cradles their clasped hands in his lap where he can see their wedding rings pressed together, catching the light. He's certain all this would feel the same even if they weren't soulmates - he doesn't have to say that out loud, though. He knows Eliot knows. 

They sit quietly for long enough that Quentin would think Eliot might have fallen asleep again, if his fingers weren't stroking gentle shapes against the skin of Quentin's hip. Quentin, on the other hand, is definitely rethinking his stance on going back to bed, until he feels Eliot's lips brush his ear. "Did you really tell me you wanted to kiss me?" he asks, sounding pleased and amused. "If I'd known that was an option from the start, it might've been a very different visit."

"I think it went alright regardless," Quentin says wryly, turning his head to see Eliot's badly-hidden smirk. "You didn't have to wait _that_ long, did you? I know you remember the actual first time we kissed."

Eliot makes a show of frowning about it, like he's thinking very hard. "There was a party at the Cottage for some holiday Margo probably made up. You got drunk and cornered me in the kitchen, if I recall."

Quentin can't help smiling at the memory, even as he rolls his eyes. "I had this whole speech planned, but it all went out the window when I got close to you."

"I could tell you were nervous," Eliot snickers. "You really surprised me. I thought I was dreaming." He pauses just long enough for Quentin's heart to clench, then smirks again, lifting an eyebrow. "You remember the fight we had afterwards?"

"About whether or not I was straight?" Quentin asks dryly, raising a brow in return. "Yeah. I remember you were an idiot." He drops the look when Eliot gives his cheek an apologetic if vindictively ticklish nuzzle - he huffs a laugh instead, and squirms just to make Eliot tighten his grip. "I also remember you made up for it," he adds, biting back a grin.

"Did I?" Eliot asks, pulling back with an innocent look. "Remind me."

Quentin rolls his eyes again, but goes along with it easily enough. "It had been, like, a week. And the fight was already 90% over, because Margo got sick of it and I sucked at staying mad at you. But we hadn't really, like, talked it out yet, and I think we both knew we needed to."

He remembers being nervous on the way up to Eliot's room, not only from the fear that he'd permanently fucked up their friendship, but also from how nervous _Eliot_ clearly was - but Eliot was the one who suggested they talk, so Quentin followed him.

And they did talk, a little bit. And then Eliot put a hand on his neck and kissed him softly, like an apology and a promise and a do-over, and when he pulled back Quentin made sure to follow him again. They both lost track of what number they were on, after that. "I don't know if making out on your bed for an hour was in your plan," Quentin says with a shrug, "but it worked out."

Eliot hums in his ear, low and pleasantly rumbly. "It's still fuzzy," he sighs, nosing against Quentin's jaw. "Maybe you can jog my memory?"

Quentin turns to cringe at him, but he doesn't bother trying to stifle the laughter bubbling up in his chest, either. "Oof, that was subtle."

"I wasn't trying to be," Eliot assures him, then dips down to kiss him again, slow and sweet.

Quentin pushes closer, smiling into it. It's nice to remember, sometimes, where they started, how things have changed - but also to know that some things haven't, like the steady warmth of Eliot's hands, the heat of his mouth, the curve of his smile against Quentin's lips.

— — — — —

— — —

—

Usually, the cushioned nook of the window seat is exclusively Quentin’s domain, cozy, reliably bright, and spelled to high heaven against the eyes of passers-by for the optimal reading or re-reading experience. At first Eliot didn't often partake, because Eliot didn't often read, but he's been getting into the habit of visiting, on quiet mornings when the house is still barely pale with sunlight.

He's always been an early riser - not necessarily by choice, but he long ago accepted the fact that he'd never be able to sleep in past noon without the assistance of at least one substance he doesn't abuse anymore - and these days, it's really not so bad. It can be nice to have a couple hours by himself before he goes upstairs to work, or, on days off, to stay in bed with Quentin and wake him up slowly, with soft touches and warm, lazy kisses. Sometimes Quentin could really use the sleep-in, though, or Eliot is just plain restless, and that's when he usually finds his way to the bay window with a book.

Quentin always manages to make sitting like a pretzel look comfortable, somehow, but Eliot is far too old for that kind of contortionism. Quentin, of course, would point out that he still has something like fifteen years before he can claim to be middle-aged, and doesn't everyone always say one's thirties are better than their twenties, anyway? At which Eliot would scoff while putting on his goddamn glasses, which he needs now, if he wants to look at any text for longer than ten minutes without getting a headache, and which obviously look great but sure don't make him feel any younger.

You'll understand when you get to be as old as I am, he'd say with a sigh, and then Quentin would say You're not even a full year older than me, you dick, and Eliot would say Semantics, and kiss him until they both forgot the point they were trying to make. Anyway.

Settling into the cushy seat, Eliot has just enough space to prop his legs up with his ankles crossed, glasses on, book open in his lap. He's about halfway through _The Hobbit_ , currently, the well-loved paperback copy he'd snuck off Quentin's bookshelf, and he thinks he's starting to understand what all the fuss is about.

He's seen the old movies, or portions of them, at least, mostly from across the room during the last marathon Q and Julia had sat through - nothing like the prestigious ceremony involved in their _Lord of the Rings_ screenings, but rather a multi-hour jaunt through a lesser trilogy apparently for the sole purpose of making fun of it, which Eliot could respect. But other than the Thranduil featurette and the occasional glimpse at Richard Armitage, they didn't much hold his attention.

The book is better, which is not an opinion Eliot thought he would ever have about any piece of media. Margo would be scandalized if she knew, and Quentin would probably pass out from joy or vindication or both - but Eliot hasn't actually told Quentin he's reading it yet. He's not really sure why, other than to spare himself the book report he knows Quentin would grill him for. He sort of just wants to find out for himself how it goes, he supposes, and choose his own favourite passages without influence, and get Quentin to tell him his afterwards.

Not that Eliot can't already guess some of them, due to the extremely dog-eared state of the book. He guessed when he first picked it up that Quentin must have had it for a long time, but he didn't know exactly how long until he glimpsed the childish handwriting on the inside cover. He hadn't known it was supposed to be a children's novel either, but that's part of why he decided to actually read it. Studying up, or whatever.

When he hears the bedroom door open, Eliot sends the paperback flying across the room to slot into an innocuous place on the bookshelf while soft, shuffling footsteps start in the hallway. Quentin is apparently awake, a little earlier than Eliot expected, but losing out on reading nook time isn't much of a hardship if it means he can make Quentin breakfast instead. Or maybe he can get him to come over and curl up with him on the window seat - it might be a little snug with the two of them pressed together, but Eliot knows Quentin can fit right in his lap for convenience.

But Quentin doesn't appear from around the corner to join him in the living room. By the sound of it, he goes the other way down the hall instead, toward the stairs. Curious, Eliot gets up to follow him.

He tracks Quentin down not halfway up the staircase, but hovering in the doorway just before it. Eliot smiles to himself, taking in his sleep-rumpled look, threadbare Star Wars t-shirt and too-long pajama pants that look suspiciously familiar. He probably should have expected to find Quentin here - since they finished setting everything up inside the magically-expanded room, they've both been spending their fair share of time just... looking at it. This isn't even the first time it's been Quentin's first stop after waking up.

He's either too tired or too distracted to even hear Eliot padding down the hall toward him, and it's not until Eliot is right beside him and reaching out to put a hand on his waist that Quentin turns his way. His look of wide-eyed awe catches Eliot off guard, not only for being so far from the sleepy smile he expected, but because Quentin almost doesn't seem to recognize him for the first half-second their eyes meet.

"Eliot," he breathes, relieved and a little scared, like seeing him is a wonder and a shock at the same time.

That's all Eliot needs for it to click. This isn't Quentin - not _his_ Quentin at least, not the one he left sleeping in their bed when he got up. This Quentin is younger by about ten years and under the influence of the most useless probability spell offered in any Brakebills course curriculum.

"Oh, shit," he says, which is not nearly the eloquent welcome he wanted to give in this moment. He reaches for Quentin's hand before his expression can twist any closer to real panic, feeling excitement bubble up in his chest. "Q, hey, you made it."

"Apparently," Quentin says weakly, still looking mostly lost. He lets Eliot take his hand though, and moves an unsteady step closer to him. "Is this, um— is this really the future? Where are we?"

"Yeah, this is— it's home, we live here." Eliot swallows a spike of anxiety while Quentin takes a wary sort of glance around. Jesus, what's he supposed to do here? How did his Quentin deal when Eliot showed up in the kitchen, shaking like a leaf and half-convinced he was still dreaming? He's not sure if this Quentin is having those same worries, but he's definitely more than a little wobbly, tightening his grip on Eliot's hand like it's the only thing keeping him grounded.

What Eliot really wants to do is just— wrap him up in his arms, right here in the hall. But he can admit that that probably wouldn't solve much, except maybe the fierce protectiveness suddenly raging in his chest. There is one thing he knows he can do, though - as long as Quentin is looking at him like this, lost and a little desperate, Eliot can be someone worth latching onto. The Ghost of Christmas Future he needs.

"Look," he says, softer now, as he reaches out to cup the side of Quentin's neck. "Time travel is a hell of a drug, but you're here with me, okay? You're safe."

He can feel Quentin's pulse pounding against his palm while he stares back, but he drops Eliot's gaze a moment later, breathing a weak, wet laugh. "I know, it's just—" He breaks off to swallow hard, and Eliot follows his eye down to their joined hands and the flash of silver between Quentin's fingers. "The spell, I— I didn't think it would actually _work—_ "

The disbelief in his voice makes Eliot's heart hurt. "Of course it did," he murmurs, sliding his palm up to Quentin's cheek, tipping his face up to meet his eye again. "We're soulmates, Q." 

He can practically feel Quentin's breath catch as he says it, and smiles as he watches eager awe chase the worry out of his gaze. "And if my math is right," he hums, "we're already together where you're from, aren't we?"

Quentin nods shyly, the corners of his mouth curling up like he can't help it. Eliot is sure his own expression must be doing something similar. He brushes his fingers past Quentin's ear and thinks back to those first few months they were together, how he liked Quentin so much that letting any part of it out felt like too much sometimes, how terrified he was of even _thinking_ about calling it love, even when nothing else fit quite right. This Quentin must be right in the middle of that, as sweet and as shy as ever - maybe a little too unsteady to be as snarky, at the moment, but Eliot is sure they can get there—

And as Quentin takes a breath and looks up at him again, Eliot remembers he's always been brave, too. 

"I want to ask something," Quentin says quietly, lifting his free hand to touch Eliot's wrist. "But I, um— I'm not sure I should? I mean, I don't know if there's, like, rules about this sort of thing, or what."

Eliot feels his lips quirking almost unbidden. "I'm pretty sure you're fine. Fire away."

Quentin takes a second to glance around the hallway again, lingering on the kitchen doorway and the stairs, then turns back to frown at him. "When did you get glasses?"

Maybe the snark was there the whole time, after all. Eliot turns his surprised laugh into a huff halfway through, rolling his eyes at Quentin's pleased little smile. "That's your most pressing question?"

"It's up there," Quentin insists, but his amusement fades as he turns his head. "No, it's, um… what is this?"

Eliot follows his gaze through the open door beside them and feels his heartbeat skip. "Ah. It's, uh, exactly what it looks like," he says haltingly, leading Quentin the first few steps into the room he'd been so entranced by.

He's not exactly nervous about what Quentin will think, but he still watches carefully as he takes it all in - the soft pastel walls and plush carpet; the dresser in one corner and armchair in the other; the basket full of stuffed animals waiting under the window; and, against the wall with teddy bears dancing in the framed prints above, the white wooden crib. "It's a nursery."

Quentin stares at the tiny bed for a long moment. "We have a baby?" he asks eventually, voice soft.

"We're going to," Eliot says, unable to keep from grinning. Familiar excitement trills through him at the thought - he still almost can't believe it's something he gets to say out loud, that it's really happening. "He's due in a couple weeks. We're just waiting for the call."

He feels Quentin's grip on his hand loosen, and turns to find him looking like he's either going to cry or laugh or faint. Maybe all three. Eliot then remembers how delicately his Quentin had worked up to this reveal when it was his turn, and grimaces a little. "Hey, uh— maybe you should sit down."

"I'm okay," Quentin insists, but he doesn't make any attempt to resist Eliot leading him over to the armchair, and sinks down into it rather gratefully. Eliot kneels on the carpet in front of him, holding both of Quentin's hands in his and watching carefully until he gets his breath back.

"Sorry," Quentin manages after a moment, huffing a weak laugh. "I'm, uh. Kind of a mess."

"Hey, you have a good excuse," Eliot assures him, squeezing his fingers. "Don't worry, on my run-through of the whole bodyswap situation, I had much less of a handle on it than you." He bites back a laugh at the doubtful expression Quentin musters up. "You're doing great."

Quentin gives him a tiny smile at that, but it melts away when he looks around the room again, his brow furrowing. "This is just... it's— I mean, I don't know what I was expecting, but, um— not this, I guess." He glances back at Eliot, shaking his head a little. "I didn't think that you even…"

"That I wanted kids?" Eliot prompts quietly.

Quentin ducks his head as he nods, almost apologetic, but when he starts to fidget, Eliot strokes soothingly over the back of his hand. He waits until Quentin looks up at him before sighing out a breath. "The version of me you know right now would probably tell you he doesn't, if you asked," he admits. "And he'd mean it. But... there are a lot of things he doesn't know yet. About you, and about himself."

"Like what?" Quentin asks softly, curling his fingers into Eliot's.

Eliot glances down to watch their hands fold together, fondness rising in his throat. "Like how being with you is just the first in a long list of things I never thought I'd be able to do," he says, breathing a laugh. "I never thought I'd… deserve it."

He feels Quentin's grip tighten and smiles, looking up at him again. "But people change, even when they don't think they can. That doesn't mean I'm not nervous, or, you know, terrified of doing it wrong, but… I don't think I've ever wanted anything as badly as I want to have a family with you."

Quentin stares back at him for a moment, his eyes wide and a little wet - but he glances away before real tears can fall, shaking his head again with an almost wry smile. "Sorry, just— this is… it doesn't feel real," he says, disbelief seeping back into his voice.

Eliot's heart clenches. "It is."

"What if it's not?" Quentin mumbles without looking back at him. "What if I fucked the spell up, somehow, and none of this is—"

"Quentin," Eliot cuts him off, sitting up to reach for him. His fingers barely brush Quentin's cheek before he's turning into the touch, wet-eyed and biting his lip, but still letting Eliot _see_ him and— god, Eliot loves him so much.

"It's real," he murmurs, stroking across Quentin's cheekbone. "I swear, Q, you're where you're supposed to be. We both are."

He still looks a little unsure, but Eliot supposes that's only fair - god knows _he_ took some convincing when it was his turn, and even then, it didn't fully take until years later. But even if Quentin doesn't remember this afterward, Eliot can make sure he knows, for however long the spell lasts— "I love you, Q," he tells him, holding his gaze. "Wherever or whenever we are, that doesn't change. Trust me."

Quentin's lips part a little in surprise and his cheeks flush pink, warm under Eliot's palm until he ducks his head in a tiny nod. He doesn't say anything, but his grip tightens on Eliot's fingers and Eliot can see the beginning of a dimple pressing into his cheek.

Something excited starts fluttering in Eliot's chest again, eager and warm. "Can I show you something else?" he asks.

He's not even sure what yet - there's so much he wants Quentin to see - but Quentin nods again, and looks up to give Eliot a tentative smile. "Anything," he says softly.

He comes along easily when Eliot pulls him to his feet, sticking close to his side on the way to the door. Eliot pauses there, watching Quentin take one last lingering look around the nursery, taking one himself - then he gives Quentin's hand a gentle tug and leads him from the room, smiling as he feels Quentin sliding their fingers together.

**Author's Note:**

> we're both on tumblr, [here](https://aniallating.tumblr.com/) and [here](https://excaliburss.tumblr.com/)! also, [here's bi flag crop top penny](https://aniallating.tumblr.com/post/642840652140494848/its-me-and-excaliburss-8-year) for u. have a good day


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